The Moirae
by Feyan
Summary: AU Post-OoTP: A letter from Sirius reveals to Harry that certain arcane magics had enthralled him, not the Dark Arts, but something deeper. As Harry takes small steps into the unknown, he is abruptly thrust in when it's the only way to escape. Dark!Harry.
1. Chapter 1: Dark

**I'll try to be concise since my previous AN derailed into hell. Number one, I don't own the Harry Potter series, nor any of extra canon details JKR created. Anything you don't recognize is mine. Please, please don't plagiarize my stuff. I understand the whole notion that everyone on FFn is plagiarizing from the rightful owners, but for the HP fandom specifically, JKR pretty much gave her gleeful consent to let us do whatever we want to whatever she created. If you are dying somewhere because you _must_ use something you've found in one of my fics, then at least have the decency to pm me and cite me somewhere in your fic. I'll be the happiest woman in whole world. **

**Numero dos, this fic deviates from canon. Majorly. The pairing is Harry/Daphne, and Harry isn't exactly canon!Harry. I also have a manipulative!Dumbledore, and will try my best to make him... smart, for a lack of a better word. There will be some blood, gore, and other miscellaneous things that I'm probably forgetting to mention. **

** Number three. This fic accidentally got deleted by yours truly sometime back in June or May. It was also under a different title. To go along with that, since June I've probably changed my pen name two or three times. BUT THIS TIME I'M SRS ;3 I also had a beta, Nightfang, who beta'd the first three chapters but I think she got lost somewhere. Sexy, eh? **

**Well, that's all I have to say for now. Enjoy, and remember that I'm a very, very feedback-motivated writer. Reviews are the world to me. I care about you guys more than I care about my family. I want to know what you guys think of the story, what you guys want to have happen... any suggestions, on the prose, or the ideas or the structural faults of any character... TELL ME. I want to know. Praise also makes me extremely egotistical, but you know, modesty is overrated. An alternative to reviewing is sending me a pm. I may not respond to every review, but I'll definitely try to get to every pm. **

**~Vuor  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>-*·.,¸,.·¯`*·.,¸,.·`'• ○.:<strong>**THE MOIRAE****:.○ •'`·.,¸,.·*¯`·.,¸,.·*-**

He turned his head to face the window, the gleaming bar-less glass mocking him. Darkness momentarily impeded his vision, only to bathe him in silver once a veil-like cloud finished passing over the full moon. It was a kind of pureness that appeared only against the stark contrast of night, too delicate to be seen in the syrupy rays of a blazing sun. And it was every night like this, that Harry wished the bloodthirsty howls of werewolves would penetrate his cage, just to assure him the Magical World wasn't a brilliant figment of imagination.

Harry was thin. Painfully thin. Ribs were easily seen pressing against pale, porcelain skin that should have been a healthy tan in the heated summer. Any food the Dursleys' gifted him with were delivered via cat flap. Though on occasion, Dudley took to sneaking a doughnut through the flap... as repayment for saving his soul.

Eyes of emerald had lost their sharpness and he'd never succumbed to sleep without seeing horrors flash across his mind. Screams would refuse to erupt from dried lips. He curled tightly in a fetal position, hugging his knees tightly to his chest until it felt completely natural to do so. His mouth always watered, almost unpleasantly now because of the continuity of delicious smells wafting through the vents. It was torture like Tantalus, always parched, surround by swelling fruits that shriveled to ash as he came close, and sweet water up to his chin but unable to drink.

Sirius died because he was too naive...too impulsive and mindless. Lord Voldemort was a _Dark Lord_ and the most brilliant student to pass through Hogwarts, so surely he would have unraveled and grasped their connection...?

Harry was appalling at Occlumency. He should have tried harder, practiced 'clearing his mind,' and respected Snape more, but he was just terrible. Sure he could shut down his emotions, refrain from thinking during the intrusion, but it just didn't work. Snape's Legilimency was like a worm wriggling into his privacy, and Harry had nothing to stop it—no dam to keep the waters from flowing.

A single, pearly tear slid from his eye to melt into his soft, bare pillow. How pathetic was he to want to enjoy life while a madman was after him? Every pulse of his heartbeat was a torturous reminder that Sirius's heart would never beat again. It would be forever silent, no longer drumming and throbbing to provide life. It would sit there as a useless organ in a body that would never be found and never be laid to rest in a peaceful garden. There would be no body for Harry to mourn the deepest loss he'd ever known.

A bird tapped his window with its beak, and Harry morbidly went to go let it in, barely taking note of the late hour.

He hoped it wasn't another letter from his friends telling him to grit his teeth and bear it—that he'd be out soon. It was almost more painful to read the meaningless words than to cope with the complete absence of letters like in his second year. There was also the fact the owls always seemed to mysteriously fly away before he could even compose a letter back.

The first thing Harry registered was that it wasn't an owl at all but rather a petite black dove with long tail fathers and beady red eyes that could _not_ have been strong enough to fly the delivery a meter let alone make the trip all the way to his house. The next thing that caught Harry's eye was what it was carrying: a large, lightly-frayed-with-age book that just _felt_ nefarious.

Apprehension loomed in Harry's stomach.

Could Voldemort have found him? Did he send the book as a sly way to curse him into eternal oblivion? The tome didn't call out to him like a compulsion but instead gave off a feeling of forbidding that would have pushed away a lesser man. But for Harry, it only made him curious to flip through its gold-tipped pages—just for a look. When he opened the book to find a thin, off-white letter with the Black family seal, his mind froze.

_Sirius...?_

Sparing no expense, he tore open the seal and read the neat cursive of his godfather.

_To my dear godson Harry,_

_If this letter reaches you, it means I've died before your seventeenth birthday. How I died... it doesn't matter. I don't care if you had been the one to cast a killing curse at me, I still love you no matter what—even if at the time I was screaming obscenities. Expect a missive from Gringotts regarding my will. You don't have to go, it's just a formal way of me giving everything I own to you._

_Now, Harry, what I'm going to tell you right now in this letter is extremely important. No matter it's length, I want you to read it all. I am not who you think I am. Yes, my name is Sirius Orion Black, born to Walburga and Orion Black, but the Born-dark-turned-Light miracle that I was considered as... that's not me. Please, Harry, it's not what you think. I'm not a Death Eater or a Dark Arts fanatic, but I have tested the waters, so to speak. _

_When I was only ten, I discovered a secret library in the ancestral Black Manor that not even my parents knew about. The books I found ranged in various levels of darkness. There were books darker than the average wizard's imagination while others were still within reason. I eventually discovered this book hidden in a small corner. Imagine my shock when I discovered this was no ordinary book about the Dark Arts—it was one of the blackest books ever written. Some of the things I read in it were sickening but so incredible._

_It was a book about souls, Harry—an incredibly detailed book that explained something even the Unspeakables could only grasp at! __Souls are a tricky concept, obscure because of their unknown nature, and even at ten, I understood that whomever had written this had done extensive study. This author didn't just observe souls, but destroyed, mutilated, and changed them. It drew me, Harry, and as my most precious possession, I leave this book to you, whether you want to read it or burn it. _

_But let me explain this book a bit further, since I'm going to foolishly assume you're still reading. Half the things in there I wouldn't even attempt to try because of their unstable natures, but one thing...one thing appealed to me like no other. Voodoo dolls. I'm sure right now you must be laughing at me, but it's true. I know they have jokes about it in the Muggle world, with movies and screen-box programs, but they're real. Little dolls that you could carry around in your pocket, resembling people you want to harm...you could stab the doll with a knife and it would puncture the real person like a knife had actually wounded them! I've never done it before...I was waiting till I got out of school to experiment but well...you know...Azkaban. _

_Voodoo doll creation isn't found anywhere except in this very book, Harry. I've checked Hogwarts's restricted section, the Black Library, the libraries of other Purebloods... they weren't there. There is a perfectly plausible reason for this though. Millennia ago, a Dark Lord used voodoo dolls, and he had been near unstoppable. But after he had been successfully murdered, the Ministry demanded a burning of the precious few books that dealt with voodoo. _

_Perhaps this book is the edge you need against Lord Voldemort. I wouldn't know, but if there is something I do know, love isn't the answer. Everyone has loved at some point, and for Voldemort, it could have been his snake or the perfect illusion of his mother as a child. Please, Harry... for me, don't do anything without thinking. Be as paranoid as Moody; better to be incessantly careful than dead._

_I desperately hope Harry, that your opinion of me doesn't change too much, but I had to tell you. I was too much of a coward to admit it when I was alive. If you do hate me now, I understand. Keep the book safe; don't let anyone see it, even your friends._

_This is your book now, Harry, whether you use it or lose it, do it wisely. _

_Your loving godfather._

The black dove looked at him intensely, as if trying to gauge his reaction. How _did_ he feel? All that was there was, was this encompassing numbness_. _He didn't feel betrayed—not in the slightest.

But it didn't scare him. That was Sirius—the same Sirius.

"Would you like to stay or do you have business elsewhere?" he asked the bird softly, using his index finger to stroke its fragile head.

The only reply was a melodic chirp, and it flew to his shoulder, snuggling it's soft head into the side of Harry's neck. "I suppose you can stay. My owl, Hedwig, is staying at Ron's house so you can use a spare cage of hers."

* * *

><p><em>Introduction to the Arts that should remain Lost: <em>

_Souls are a fickle thing. Ever evasive and seemingly unconquerable, these supposedly metaphorical organs are a part of every being. Nothing is without a soul, for something without a soul is soulless, and no race of creatures could have ever survived and developed without the abilities they grant. Even the most darkest, evilest, vilest subhuman things born of the blackest mire have a soul, no matter how shriveled and faded it may be. But with these Arts in this very book, you can uncover the secrets of the most arcane and learn to control them to your advantage. _

Harry paused, excitement bubbling up in his abdomen. He shouldn't be doing this, but it gave him such a thrill doing so. Something Dumbledore would actually bat his white eyelashes at and cause the twinkle in his eyes disappear. He was sure that Sirius left him his property and money, but this one book that was specially delivered to him... it must be worth something.

More than something.

It was the only source of entertainment in his cage. His trunk was locked up in his old cupboard, containing his schoolwork, books and other precious possessions. The wand beside him was useless at the moment. Vernon didn't want a repeat of what happened last year since he fully seemed to believe it was Harry's magic that had reduced Dudley to that state.

Anger tickled his chest, and a snarl twisted his face at the injustice—those fat pigs gorging themselves with more food in half a week than he got for the whole summer. He was punished and taunted for something he couldn't control. Nothing would beat magic out of him, but only perhaps make it so unstable that it would lash out at what his would-be impaired mind conceived as threats. Magic would protect him when he needed it most, and Harry had full faith in that theory. But he had been abused—physically and emotionally—for so long that he considered it normal, no matter how sickening.

He would have left—gone away long ago and so far away—but he was safest here from Death Eaters and Voldemort, the Blood Wards his mother enacted by sacrificing herself for him keeping the magical dangers away. The Cruciatus Curse was far worse than being starved.

But he couldn't help but wonder...what if he locked his 'family' in a closet and he had free reign over the house? Able to do what he so desired, still having those precious Blood Wards that Dumbledore held in such high esteem?

It would be possible but unthinkable on his part. What would everyone think of him? Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore...? They would be utterly disgusted. No one would look at him the same way again, always having the thought in the back of their minds of him locking up his relatives for a bit of freedom. But didn't he deserve it? For saving the world? Killing the Basilisk and saving Ginny from the danger of Tom Riddle? Disrupting all of Voldemort's plans?

What did he get in turn for liberating the world, both Muggle and wizard, of the worst Dark Lord? He got love-struck fangirls with stalkerish tendencies, scorn, suspicion, people using his name in vain, the pleasure of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, bigoted newspaper critics that pick apart what he's doing wrong and how _they_ could do it better, bitter looks from anyone in the Ministry, being labeled as an insane sociopath, expected to save the world once again, being targeted at every corner by former Death Eaters, chastised for doing magic during the holidays, brought to a full Wizengamot court for saving his cousin's soul, tortured with visions from Voldemort, getting stuck with abusive relatives, starved, taunted, beaten...

If they treated all their saviors this way he _really_ didn't want to be one. He had never wanted the fame and the expectations before, but with the wizarding world going from spitting at him to worshiping his feet...didn't he deserve the stability?

Didn't Vernon realize that Harry had saved the Muggle world as well? That he was the reason why Dudley wasn't a slave to some rich aristocrat and his wife a brothel whore that no one paid for? That he was the reason why his family still lived, _period_?

No. He was nothing more than the nuisance of a nephew that Petunia took out all her stress and anger on—just someone to whack with hot pans when the urge arose.

Fury clutched his heart, burning it. He wasn't a toy.

Sirius gave him this book, and he would learn it, memorize it. No point in wasting knowledge. Carefully flipping through the pages, he looked for the section that drew Sirius the most, eliciting a delighted chirp from the bird.

Harry had decided to call the unusual dove "Bird" simply for the reason he didn't think it would stay for long. No use in getting attached to something when it will inevitably be pulled away.

_Voodoo Dolls: The object of every wizard's dream, whether it be the impulsive decision to harm the unfaithful partner of a previous relationship or for a Dark Wizard to torture a victim 'til utter satisfaction. These are no ordinary dolls, and if you haven't realized as much, I urge you to put this book down. _

_To create such dolls, there needs to be a part of the victim as well as a little part of yourself. To make one, these would be the instructions. _

_First: Find a vessel. Something made of fabric would be preferred as eventually the doll will take the form of the victim, and it would be more sensible to carry a pliant one than say... one of glass. _

_Second: Empty three drops of your own life-force, willingly given. Best if you cut yourself over the vessel, as it would be undeniably willingly given. For this to work, even remotely at all, you must be a pureblood. _

_Third: Place a small object of significance to your victim in the vessel—the more significant, the more efficient. It must be an item (or a piece of one) that means something. Perhaps a childhood object? _

_Fourth: Fill the rest of the doll with the blood of the victim, whether it is willingly given or not is of no consequence. _

_Fifth: Then stitch up the doll by hand. It is imperative that no magic is used. _

_Six: Create a circle using powdered bone and sacrifice an animal inside of it. By killing the animal inside the circle, you are releasing its insignificant soul yet keeping it close by. In the few moments in which the doll is being made, that same soul will be pulled into the doll, giving it life-like properties and increasing the bond between doll and victim. Do not use a human soul. This will not strengthen the ritual but will rather create something much different._

_Seven: Place the doll inside the ritual circle and drip one drop of unicorn blood (you must have touched it first) on it while chanting this line three times: "_Vinculo per sanguinem et animam', _and don't pause for breath. _

_The doll is now complete. You may use it to your heart's desires. _

_Extra Notes: The Unicorn blood is known for saving a being, no matter how close they are to death, with the repercussions of living a half-life, but the blood is much unknowingly also used to create a bond of life between two beings. Usually it is the Unicorn giving it's life for the drinker, but in this rare case it is you giving some of your essence to the doll. Essence is renewable, and is just the residue of your soul residing in your body. The Darker you are, the more essence you leave, thus making darker magic more traceable than it's Light counterparts. After the ritual, you will feel drained for perhaps two hours, depending on your magical and soul strength._

_Why you must not use a human soul: The human soul is much stronger and more complex than an animal's. Simply put, the doll won't be a submissive toy but rather a miniature version of your victim. They gain the ability to walk, and talk and follow instructions—though from experience, they normally won't. That, and the bond between victim and doll, will be so strong that the victim will be able to see through the doll's eyes, control the doll's limbs and speech like an extension of themselves. In extreme cases, the soul in the doll and the victim's will merge. You do not want this, as souls were not meant to be meshed with each other. The outcome will be either the victim will be left soulless and the doll will be utterly useless, or the doll will cage the two souls and a monster will be born in the doll's place. _

_For more details, turn to the next page._

He stared at the book in his lap. Despite the minute feeling of horror creeping along his gut, solutions raced through his mind.

_Unicorn blood: Forbidden Forest, Knockturn Alley..._

_Something special belonging to Bellatrix Lestrange: The Ancestral House of Black. Something special belonging to Draco and Lucius Malfoy: Malfoy Manor. Something special belonging to—_

There was just one word that nagged at his mind._ Pureblood?_ Wasn't being a pureblood just a fancy title proclaiming "pure" lineage? Pretentious extremist. Blood was blood, and how could magic even tell the difference between pure and impure? There wasn't some sort of genetic sign that divulged whether a person was a pureblood or not.

And even if it there was, which was nigh impossible, wouldn't Sirius have seen this before he gave him the book? It was obviously just a way to discourage half-bloods and Muggleborns from reading the tome—

The dove suddenly flew down to the book and flipped the pages with its wings, and Harry found himself looking at another ritual. One far more..._different_ than the voodoo dolls.

In bold print near the front of the book, there was a title that Harry had never even thought possible:_ "Purification of the Blood."_

* * *

><p>A heavy fist slammed into his stomach, and Harry fell to the ground in an undignified heap. He was too weak to stand.<p>

Vernon's purple face loomed above, staring down at him in a drunken rage. "It's all your fault I didn't get that promotion, boy! I know your freaky freakishness made Wingsworth give the position to that trash instead of me!"

A kick. Harry moaned and grit his teeth, curling up into ball. Bird looked down at him, scared. Vernon saw the dove and grabbed its body with more swiftness than Harry thought possible.

"More freakish creatures..." Vernon muttered, squeezing the bird ever more tighter. "Pet was glad you didn't bring that damned owl here...reminded her too much of her sister's bird—Rad... Rayd…" Vernon stumbled slightly, taking another quick swig from the bottle sitting innocently on the table, as if hoping to clear his memory. Courage from the bottle.

"…Reed…REIDA, that's what it was! Reida." Vernon's excitement in figuring out his mother's bird's name resulted in the relaxing of his hand, letting Bird slip out. With an indignant chirp, Bird dive-bombed Vernon's face.

"AHHHHHHHH!" Vernon screeched, and Harry was positive that the neighbors had heard.

Impulsively noting Vernon's position, Harry clenched his teeth against the pain and took off toward the door, leaping bounds over the couches and chairs. He hardly cared about the Blood Wards or staying safe. Vernon had that same glint in his eyes that Voldemort had when he saw something he wished to kill.

Gritting his teeth at a sharp pangs of pain in his stomach, he grabbed a large bag of chips of the table he was jumping over. His ankles hurt worse than a hell but he pressed forward until he was sprinting out the door. He stopped for all but a moment and quickly hid behind a large shrub.

"NO VERNON! WE NEED HIM! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT—" Petunia's shrill voice and a following sound of a sharp slap echoed out of the house. Heavy panting was heard until it gradually calmed. "I'm so sorry Vernon. It's j-just t-that now we could be attacked by...by..._them,_ and Dumbledore said that as long as the boy considers this place home, we're safe."

Vernon gave an apologetic grunt.

Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat. _Home_? He had never considered this place as his _home_. How could they_ think_ he remotely even _liked_ this place? Did his relatives think that just because he was a wizard that he didn't have the same emotions as them?

The overpowering smell of chips caressed his nostrils and he started scarfing them down, not caring the slightest about the sharp bits scraping down his insides.

His mind shut down as he greedily shoveled more chips into his mouth, crushing them so fast with his teeth that his saliva didn't have time to soften it before it went down his throat. The salt was getting to him, but he didn't care.

The bag was quickly finished and Harry laid on the ground exhausted, the little cuts in his mouth stinging.

What to do now?

And where was the Order?

Harry sniffed the air slightly and frowned at the tang of alcohol mixed with rubbish. _Mundungus Fletcher_. He _would_ be stationed at the time when Harry needed an Order member the most.

Well he could...

_His trunk_.

Except for his wand, all of his possessions were in the locked cupboard under the mercy of his undoubtedly vengeful relatives. He could use magic, but the Ministry would be alerted. And they were the very last people he wanted on his back—especially Umbridge who was still the undersecretary to the Minister even though Fudge didn't hold the position anymore. The woman was a pest. A parasitic disease that refused the leave, digging her claws deeply into whoever held power.

Or perhaps Rufus Scrimgeour simply liked the simpering pink toad's sugary compliments and unparalleled loyalty to the Ministry? No. Umbridge probably just blackmailed him. No one could like the toad even if they tried, barring Fudge.

The evening sun was descending as Harry made plans to break into the house to retrieve his belongings. It just needed to be a bit darker outside.

Thank Merlin that Order shifts were half a day. The next member would replace Mungdungus Fletcher at dawn.

* * *

><p>Harry tiptoed around the house, expertly dodging any window. He reached the back of the tall white fence that secured the privacy of #4's backyard. Finding purchase with his feet, he hauled himself over it, landing ungracefully on his feet and noting with satisfaction the dark windows and powered-off TV. He cautiously dropped to his knees and started crawling, avoiding the sharp gaze of the harpy with binoculars next door who just so happened to be attempting to look through the master bedroom window. Harry vividly remembered she was the same woman who had whispered none too quietly, <em>"I could hear them from across the street! Gah, how uncouth!"<em> To a friend of Petunia's, who had in return, nodded like a toddler shaking a bobble-head.

Perverts.

Who would have thought people stayed up this late just to watch for gossip? And to think they looked perfectly well-rested in the morning.

He snuck up to the door and slowly turned the brass knob, cringing at the squeak. Harry was only let out of his cage to tend to the garden because Petunia was just too lazy to do it herself. Vernon always told him to lock the back door at night, but since he wasn't there, Vernon must've forgotten to do it himself.

He slipped inside and was welcomed to a dark, unusually clean kitchen. The perfection had always bothered Harry because it looked as if no one had ever lived here. To remedy the cold, impersonal air of the kitchen, he pulled a ketchup bottle out of the pantry. Once the red goo covered the gleaming counters and even the sofa and armchairs, he moved on to utilize the pickles. Once the carpet was adequately accessorized, Harry moved to grab the keys to his cupboard from the wooden drawer.

_Creak_.

Harry twisted his head so fast, it made his head dizzy. Petunia's horse-like face looked absolutely devilish in the moonlight, and Harry swore his heart stopped for a moment. Quickly, he jiggled the thick key into the lock, stealth be damned at this point. Within moments, the small door gave and Harry tugged his trunk out.

Petunia was shrieking for Vernon and clutching her long through. The large man came bustling in, a shotgun in his meaty hands as he squinted at Harry.

"BOY!"

Disregarding his relatives, he ran out the door, sprinting across the yard. It would have been easier to go out the front door, but Dudley was already on the steps, watching the commotion with surprise.

Vernon chased him outside, yelling and drawing the attention of the Harpies. Multiple sets of binoculars swiveled in their direction, and most notably Arabella Figg, who had yet to take the cucumber circles from her eyes.

The adrenaline that had flooded his veins was beginning to thin as he lugged his heavy trunk over the fence. What little adrenaline he had left only served to make him acutely aware of the fact that Vernon was only a few meters behind him, and he wasn't quite out of the shotgun's range yet. Fear coursed through him, and his hands began to shake. He was utterly _spent_.

But he was so close.

He wouldn't let his work go to waste. The abuse would double, and he would no doubt be killed by whatever punishment the Dursleys came up with. The sound of snapping bones echoed in Harry's ears as he willed the trunk to get over the fence. _Just get over. Get the fuck over the bloody fence!_

With a rumble, the trunk jerked out of his grasp, soaring somewhere into the sky. Harry almost breathed out a sigh of relief, but Vernon was practically on him, shotgun fallen to the grass and arms outstretched.

Harry messily vaulted over the fence, glancing at the Harpies and flipping them his middle finger. Some of them retreated, ashamed at being caught. Most though, continued to watch the show.

Vernon gave a yell, and Harry realized just how close he was to being strangled. Bird flew to him, Sirius's letter and the book its grasp as it hovered near a tall tree. The trunk plummeted to the ground next to him, leaving a sizable crater in the ground.

Faster than Harry thought possible in his current state, he hauled his trunk out of the ground and crossed over someone's backyard and onto the street. Vernon was already fiddling with the lock on the gates.

Working his way past a few streets, he quickly pulled out his wand from where it was strapped to his ankle, held it up in the air, and called for the only transportation available to him.

"_Knight Bus."_

* * *

><p>The large, purple, triple-decker bus appeared instantly in front of him, its width similar to that of a piece of paper. With a jaunty smile, Stan pulled a red lever, promptly opening the door.<p>

"'Ello!"

Harry nodded and stepped up the few steps before introducing himself—_again_, since the sandy-haired man didn't remember him from before. But this time he would be under a different alias. Neville was probably famous now from participating in the battle in the Department of Mystery. "Dudley... Vernon Dudley. Could you drop me off at—" Harry paused to think of where he could go. It was in the dead of the night. "—the Leaky Cauldron?"

Stan's smile grew broader, showing off a few gold teeth, "Hop on kid! Sure, I'll take you there. It'll be only a Sickle."

Harry rummaged through his pockets, finding some left over wizard money. Two Galleons, two Sickles and a lonely Knut. In the morning, he could stop at Gringotts to get some extra money.

After dropping the Sickle into the red bucket, he made his way to his seat, vaguely remembering his last experience on this bus. The magical vehicle immediately shot off and hurtled down the road at breakneck speeds. After two stops, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt in front of the dingy inn.

Harry clambered out, wishing the still-clueless Stan a good night and trudged into the only door to Diagon Alley.

Harry self-consciously patted down the hair over his scar, making sure none of his black locks were parted enough to see the angry red lightning bolt underneath.

In a dimly lit corner, two people were playing some sort of card game and didn't look up when he entered. Tom though, stopping scrubbing down a table and waved him over.

"What can I do for you, lad? Need a place for the night?"

Harry's eyes drooped a little. "Yes, just for tonight. It's a Galleon right?"

"Right. Take room number seven, why don't cha? Pay tomorrow. Just go up and get a good night's sleep; you look dreadful. Expect some breakfast in the morning."

Harry's lips quirked into a smile at the kindness. Tom was one of the very few innately good people in this sad, cold world.

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>(Author's Notes)<strong> : First chapter up. My twist on this cliche.

For my other fics, I did not get lost in the woods or suffer from an intense heatstroke. Just more exams, studying, homework... laziness.

Also. For this chapter, Tom nor Stan recognized Harry because of his 'new appearance'. He's gaunt, unhealthy looking, pale and his hair is longer. If they had imagined Harry Potter (The Boy-Who-Lived) he would be healthy, tan, exuberant and probably wouldn't ask for a room in the middle of the night. If you need a further explanation, Tom was probably half asleep and if Stan remembered him, he'd match the name Neville Longbottom to HP's face...

In the beginning of the fic, Harry _was_ feeling particularly dramatic.

_Reviews are very nice. :) _


	2. Chapter 2: Sun

**Disclaimer: **No I don't own Harry Potter. Don't think I ever will.

Harry's eyelids fluttered open as the morning sun's rays streamed through the window. He slowly stretched out across the mattress before curling back up and snuggling deeply into his warm cocoon of blankets and pillows. The ache in his abdomen seemed to have dissipated with the good night's rest.

He vaguely wondered if Dumbledore had known he'd left Privet Drive. Harry had smashed all his trinkets after all... but if the headmaster hadn't been warned by Arabella Figg, then his relatives might have—even if it was just to complain about what a _nuisance_ he had been to them.

Harry slowly slid out bed, opting to carefully ease himself out of the criminally soft nest rather than feel an immediate rush of cool air against his skin. Petunia had always flung the blankets off of him, and he really hated being woken up that way.

Actually now that he thought about it, waking up to the slap of a freezing cold, ice water was much worse. As was Dudley's old favorite: attempted suffocation.

"My boy! You're finally awake. Now let me just say I've waited _hours_ to tell you that your hair really needs some fixing!" the mirror admonished him in a sing-song voice. And if it had lips, he could imagine they would be pouting in frustration. Like Ginny's did.

Harry sighed, halfheartedly running a hand through his hair.

"No boy! Not like that. How are you suppose to get the right results if you don't even try? Now, about those horrendous glasses. Surely those gorgeous emeralds need some adoring attention from the females? The glasses completely block their brilliant color! And that skin. It's good pale, but go for a more creamy look than that dreadful ghost-white! Only vampires can pull that trend off, but some sun never hurt anyone else, did it? I expect a good couple hours in this heat will do the trick."

"I haven't got any money on me right now, except a Galleon. I don't think I can pay for... what was that? Casarda's Cream for Luckless Locks?" Harry interrupted grumpily. All he needed was a good, hot meal and he'd be fine. Anything except chips. He was sick of chips.

The mirror made a 'tut' sound. "Poor boy. Tell you what, there is some of that cream in my left drawer. The previous man had left it here—Gilderoy Lockhart, I think his name was. It really works wonders—you should have seen that man when he woke up! Worse than you! Especially because he had longer hair. Now I think you should use some of what's left but only if you promise me to buy more for yourself when you get the chance."

Harry's eyes widened, his jaw dropping just slightly. Gilderoy Lockhart would..._ lower_ himself to sleep _here_ instead of some fancy palace with golden forks and crystal chandeliers? Who knew?

Harry supposed that there would be no harm in putting some of it through his hair. If only to shut the mirror up.

He opened the drawer and took out a clear bottle, half filled with thick, amber cream. Grudingly, he poured the rest of the bottle directly onto his head, wincing at the hissing sound coming from where the potion touched his hair.

"Good job boy! Looks a thousand times better already. I think it stays on for a few weeks—fancy stuff, you know? French, most likely. Now about those teeth…you should get them whitened and polished. They're white, yes, but they can be _whiter_—"

Harry barely listened to the relentless inane rambling as he eyed his hair. It was a touch longer with everything straightened out so it pooled around his shoulders, with a lightly wavy part covering his left eye. It was much finer than it used to be, but there was lots of it. His hair was no longer a messy mop that looked like a tornado had gone though it.

Maybe that fraud of a professor was good for something after all? But Lockhart probably knew more hair styles than spells anyway. If only he put all that effort into being a good magician.

"Thanks," Harry said to the mirror before quickly gathering his stuff. "I look better than before."

With that he swept out of the room and walked down the rickety stairs to the first floor. Tom looked up from serving someone hot tea and offered him a smile. To be polite, Harry smiled back, dragging the trunk the rest of the way down.

He fished around his pocket and found a Galleon. He placed it in the palm of the innkeeper's weathered hand and seated himself at a secluded table away from the flow of visitors and prying eyes.

Eying a fresh Daily Prophet in the corner of his table, he grudgingly picked it up and flipped through its pages, noting with bemusement that most of the headlines were concerning him. There was an apology note from the former Minister Fudge, having printed it in the papers since he couldn't reach Harry by owl. Then was an article about the prophecy concerning Harry, which also had the gall to declare him a coward for not facing Voldemort as soon as possible. Below that one was about a vicious Death Eater attack on Amelia Bones's home, the successful politician having barely escaped with her niece though a secret passageway.

A frown etched itself on his face. He wanted to have a _chat_ with this reporter that called him a _'coward'_. Amazingly it wasn't Rita Skeeter but someone named Betty Braithwaite.

A clank came from the table and Harry looked up, startled. Tom gave him an apologizing smile, both of his hands gripping a metal tray of breakfast. "Harry Potter, eh? What do you think of him?"

Harry cleared his throat, "He's a good guy, I've always known it. And I refused to believe such a...revered figure could turn mentally unstable within a year when he seemed perfectly fine before then. Now I think…now that people are apologizing, he won't like it too much…because well, why would he? He did nothing wrong but speak the truth, and almost no one believed him while the Ministry threw his name to the dogs, desperately wanting the peace to continue and ignore all of these…Vol—You-Know-Who's wrong doings. I'm sure he feels…betrayed by the wizarding world, them having turned their back on their savior when he needed them most.

"Honestly, if You-Know-Who were to come back, I doubt Potter would be so willing to come to the aid of those who abandoned him."

Tom's eyes were as wide as dish plates and Harry thought the Innkeeper was looking at him with a new semblance of respect. "Wise words young man. I am ashamed... that I believed everything the Prophet had been spewing. It also didn't help to hear some of my customers mention the Boy-Who-Lived doing crazy things like killing a basilisk at age twelve! But now that the whole prophecy thing is out...I wouldn't find it so absurd if he actually did," Tom let a weary look grace his features.

Harry felt a surge of hot anger at the innkeeper, but it quickly died away. The man thought of him as the Boy-Who-Lived, the future Dark-Lord-Defeater, and nothing more. But Tom didn't really know the true Harry Potter, so he had to grasp onto the image that the public displayed him as. Tom was nothing more than a sheep who couldn't see his shepherd.

At least Tom was honest. A lesser man would have just claimed that they knew Harry was sane the whole time, and Harry respected that of the old innkeeper.

Tom left, attending to another customer who had waved him over. Harry quickly shoveled his food in, while savoring the taste of real food all the same. Tom didn't come back so he left the tray on the table with a Sickle as the tip.

After entering Diagon Alley, he arrived at the entrance of Gringotts. He pushed open the great glass doors and hurried over to a teller, not wanting to stay longer than necessary with the fierce guard goblins. He had heard some of the stories passing through Hogwarts. Apparently someone's aunt had gotten speared by one of them for looking the wrong way.

The goblin sitting inside the booth took one look at him and sneered, delicately putting the large ruby he'd been admiring out of Harry's sight.

"Can I help you?" his nasal voice questioned, pointy yellow teeth gleaming as his nonexistent lips twisted into a smile full of unconcealed poison.

Clearly he didn't want to help.

Harry noted the gold badge on the Goblin's chest had the name '_Gorger_' engraved on it. Goblins had always served to make him uncomfortable, even from the very first time he had seen them and their…_unique_ names didn't help.

"I am Harry _Potter_," he said, putting and emphasis on his last name.

The Goblin immediately lost his snarky attitude, and his sharp eyes glinted respectfully, if not a bit greedily. "Ah—how may Gringotts serve a fine gentleman such as yourself?"

The change in attitude unnerved Harry more than he would have liked to admit. "Could I withdraw—" How much did he need? Better to aim high. "—a thousand Galleons?"

Gorger nodded before handing a simple leather pouch to him. "Here you are, Master Potter. If I may, I happen to notice you are without your Lord Rings?"

Harry looked at the Goblin with confusion before comprehension dawned on him. Lord Rings—like the fancy one Malfoy wore.

"I don't know...I've never gotten it—them," Harry stumbled awkwardly.

Gorger frowned. "Let's rectify that shall we? It's unbecoming of your status to be without them." He reached down and pulled out a long wooden box, and Harry was at a slight awe of how organized goblins seemed to be.

The creature opened the box, and Harry saw eight rings. The Potter ring was first, a ruby inlaid in rich gold with carvings on the side. After that was the Black ring—a clear black diamond with opulent, if a little gaudy, decorations on the dark silver. The rest of the rings were as awe-inspiring, gorgeous stones in beautiful metals. Emerald in silver, amethyst in dark silver, stunning pearl in white-gold—all with extremely decorative figures placed around the jewels.

"Why do I have so many?" Harry asked unsteadily, eyes widening at how the rings seemed to glimmer in the light.

"These are all the families you are the Lord of. Potter, Black, Persh, Anestha, Orphe, Wealthington, Xeerie, and Merlot. The Potter family and Black family are classified as Uncountables—but I believe Black is richer than Potter—while the rest are penniless, having been wiped out over time. They are very prestigious names though, if I do say so myself. The right _wizards_ may remember a couple of those."

Harry's heart started to beat faster, "Do a lot of people have this many?"

"No, Master Potter. A few selective families do though—some even more than they can carry on their fingers. The Malfoys, I believe, have the same amount that you do. You yourself would have more rings, but the Blacks merged all theirs into their one ring. I can't blame them, they had _chestfuls..._ which seem to have been cultivated using suspicious methods."

Harry nodded, "And...about Sirius's will... when will that be executed?"

"Former Master Black's will execution will happen here at Gringotts, but since he is a Lord, many Wizengamot members will be required to attend. It is a known fact he is already dead...though speculation concerning how..." Gorger eyed him critically, "...is still continuing. The date is August fifteenth. I suggest you be there."

Harry nodded meekly, and at Gorger's request, slid all the rings on his fingers. He couldn't help but imagine how pompous he must look with the gaudy jewels extruding from his knuckles.

Wonder what Ron would think…

He walked down the alley, eyeing the different shops and various items in the window. His gaze lingered on the Firebolt showcased in the Quidditch Shop. He felt a pang when he remembered that his own Firebolt—his first real present from Sirius—was still at Hogwarts.

Wrenching his mind away from the memories, Harry continued to make his way down the line of shops. He stopped at Mistress Malkin's Custom Robes for the Classy. Madam and Mistress Malkin were sisters who'd once co-owned a shop, but when the latter decided to only cater to the wealthy, the sisters split. Harry knew he needed new robes, and because of his newly-acquired fortune, he decided to treat himself.

Harry stepped through the door, the silver bell tinkling above him. The antique-feeling shop had fat rolls of fabric that lined the walls, mainly darker colors, but the odd yellow and purple shades stood out in contrast. It definitely looked like a shop that the wealthier would frequent—much different than the office-like appearance of Madam Malkin's.

A tall woman with her white hair pulled back into a fancy bun stared at him with strict eyes as he stepped further into the shop.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I need some new robes. I've been put into some _situations_ lately, preventing me from—" he looked down and motioned to himself, "—providing for my growth spurt."

Mistress Malkin's eyes glittered, and she nodded as she ushered him closer. "Well, young man, can you pay for it? The cheapest fabrics we have are thirty Galleons per robe."

Harry nodded, internally wincing at the fact that Ron's father made roughly that figure a week.

But he was the Boy Who Lived. He didn't have the luxury of family, so why couldn't he find a halfway-decent replacement? Material items were nice even if they didn't match up to family.

"I've got more than enough. What kind of fabrics would you recommend?"

The woman smirked at the precious business opportunity. "What would you be looking for?"

"I need a formal robe—very formal," he answered, thinking about Sirius's will reading, "and four regular robes."

"I can certainly help you, young man, but just remember the price," Mistress Malkin said, adopting a pinched expression. "Jarvey skin is normally used for formal robes. For regular robes, I would have to say Acromantula silk if you're feeling particularly fancy. Re'em skin is for more resistant clothing if you prefer that. Go have a look at the fabrics, boy and see what catches your liking."

Harry moved to the racks, admiring the way one particular fabric glimmered in the sun. He looked around and eventually found something akin to the texture of his own invisibility cloak—slippery and delicate.

"Acromantula silk," Mistress Malkin intoned from behind him. "Naturally fire resistant with a degree of spell-resistivity like all magical creatures. And as I said before - absolutely gorgeous material."

"I'll take four robes in that then."

Now he just needed something for Sirius's will. Something that would make an impression on all those other Lords and show _Betty Braithwaite_ that he wasn't just a small little boy who cowered behind Dumbledore. He needed an image that would make that wouldn't just impress them but scare them enough that they won't relentlessly slander him in the _Prophet_.

He stopped his perusal when an unnatural cloth passed under his fingertips. It was a rich black color and on the exterior were many minuscule scales stuck together. The cloth was heavy and seemed to hold shadows to it, giving it a very ominous appearance. It sent cold chills up his fingers, but for some strange reason, a comforting warmth settled in his stomach. It unnerved Harry, but at the same time, it seemed oddly familiar.

"Thestral skin," Mistress Malkin said from behind him. "It affects those who've seen death. For those who've been spared that horror, it's not as…ghastly a sight. I personally don't like it. Thestrals are omens of death, but it's spell resistant, weather resistant, and—to an extent—physically resistant. Though it's more for show than anything else. Nobody really thinks to make cloth out of them, so this is the _only_ fabric around. I must say that those disgusting creatures die right after you skin them, and who knows where they go—if they were even alive in the first place."

A sneer marred the woman's face, giving Harry the impression that she didn't like dead things.

He was disturbed that someone actually thought of skinning the creatures when there was barely any of it on them to begin with.

"Could I have a cloak made with this?"

Mistress Malkin took the whole roll with her, grumbling about _finally_ getting rid of it. Harry was also fairly sure he heard her cursing her father under her breath for his odd hunting habits.

They went into the tailoring room, and Mistress Malkin immediately set to work. The Acromantula silk robes were done fairly quickly, being pinned and cut easily and giving no resistance to molding itself against his skin. The robes easily billowed out like Snape's because they were just so _light_. Harry felt the dark satisfaction of finally getting one-up on Aragog now that he was possibly wearing the precious silk of one of the creature's bloodthirsty children.

On his request, she trimmed each set of robes with a different color—gold, green, red, and blue.

Once the seamstress finally finished, she brought out the thestral skin. She tried to use her magical scissors to cut it, but it wouldn't work.

_'Stubborn',_ Harry thought sardonically before a frustrated Mistress Malkin used her wand to slice through it.

As she fit the fabric around him, Harry decided that this cloak would be the one he would wear not only to Sirius's will reading but _everywhere_. If he was going to use his image to threaten Death Eaters and bloody reporters at every turn, then why not do it right?

The cloak took roughly three hours, and Mistress Malkin looked utterly exhausted. She turned him around and her eyes widened as she took in his figure.

"Fits well," she said, nodding.

He turned to look back at the mirror and a smirk twisted on his lips. If only he had a horse and a scythe.

Harry cleared his throat and started removing the heavy cloak. "How much for everything?"

Mistress Malkin let a cruel smile curve her lips. "Five hundred Galleons, boy."

After using his wand to pull out an orderly geyser of gold from his leather pouch and exiting the shop with his purchases, he surveyed the different stores for a place to eat. But when his eyes landed on an apothecary, Harry looked down at the malnourished body hiding under his robes. He glanced up at Bird, who patiently perched himself on various objects as he waited for Harry. Making a resolute decision, Harry entered the shop, bought a murky purple nutrition potion called "Cura Opus," which promised instant results within ten seconds, and exited the shop.

Outside, right near the door, an old plump woman with graying chestnut hair leaned against the shabby wood of the shop, fanning herself with a thin book. She gave Harry a polite smile and asked, "Hogwarts?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

She smiled wide, and an unidentifiable light entered warm eyes. "That's wonderful, deary! I'm going to be working there, you know? As the caretaker."

"What about Filch?" Harry stated bluntly, trying to suppress the immediate sense of overwhelming joy.

The woman frowned. "That poor man. Argus was involved in a very...unfortunate incident and is at St. Mungo's, undergoing extensive treatment. I was there at the time it happened, and I felt so bad for him that I offered to take up the spot. I'm Ada Sweetbread, by the way."

Despite Flich having been in a terrible accident, Harry just couldn't find it in himself to feel bad for the squib.

"Oh. Hope he gets better," Harry said before departing, leaving the woman to go back to fanning herself.

The sun was starting to reach high noon, and Harry realized the Order must be worried sick about him. Surely by now they would have known he was missing. He could already picture Molly and Hermione crying. Ron would be more understanding, but he too would be scared for him. And then Dumbledore would look at him with those disappointed eyes of his, and Harry would end up feeling like he caused the end of the world.

A sick realization startled him. No one would want to be every remotely associated with him once he started playing around with Dark Magic. But Sirius had suggested it… Was Sirius more important than his friends? The Leader of the Light?

Did Harry owe it to Sirius?

Running as fast as he can, he rushed into the Leaky Cauldron, drawing a few eyes. Harry swerved himself to near the back of the Inn, to the fireplace. With trepidation, he grabbed a handful of green powder and threw it into the fire.

"Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," Harry whispered to the mantle, careful not to let anyone hear. Before he stepped in he took a Galleon out of his leather pouch and dropped it in the fee box.

Gripping his purchased tightly, he stepped into the green flames.

* * *

><p><strong>AN - **Chapter Two :) If you haven't realized it... this is an AU that starts out with a cliche. Here is the infamous shopping trip... err... not really too much a shopping trip I suppose. Bank, clothes and nutrition potions.

Next is Grimmauld Place. Expect some verbal.

And _yes_. There will be OOCness. In this story, Sirius wasn't completely 'Light' and some of the other characters are going to act differently.

Also about the Knight Bus in the last chapter... calling the Knight Bus isn't really a spell so the Ministry can't track it. Then in this chapter the Floo system is working, when I _think_ in the books it doesn't. Think of it here as an easier way for members to get to number twelve.

Review :D


	3. Chapter 3: Wound

**Disclaimer:** If you think I own Harry Potter, you may need to visit a mental hospital instead of reading this piece of _fan_fiction.

Harry gracelessly stumbled out of the stone mantle, barely keeping himself from going into a vicious coughing fit. Bird's talon's were dug deeply into his shoulder, chirping angrily in his ear like an emergency siren.

The first face he saw was Molly Weasley's, who quickly shoved her plump form through the furniture and enveloped Harry into a bone crushing hug. "Oh Harry," Her voice was muffled against his shoulder and warm tears quickly started to bleed through his robes, making the skin underneath feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Mrs. Weasley..." He choked out, able to get a few quick breaths of oxygen before his lungs got the impression that they were to collapse.

And he was sure he heard his ribs creak.

"Oh Harry!" She cried, crushing him even further for a few seconds before releasing him from her deadly grasp. "We were all so worried! Dumbledore couldn't find you after the Blood Wards around the Dursleys fell - those terrible muggles! He suspected you might have taken the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron... Oh Pumpkin! Why didn't come as soon as you got near a floo? You must have been so scared - and you're so thin! By Merlin, those nasty muggles couldn't have even allowed you one good dinner since you got there haven't they, Harry? Ron's upstairs, in the fifth room to the left, first floor... I'll call the Order, they were going to send a search party if you hadn't come back within the day..." Molly left him, rushing over to the fireplace and throwing a dash of green powder in.

Harry watched her for a moment before entering the main hallway, ready to yank his trunk all the way up the spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever. It was pretty to look at, but more work to get up.

On his way to the stairs he spotted Kreature languidly sweep his duster over a table, not even making an attempt to clean, just moving the dust around with the gray feathers.

The evil house elf was the reason Sirius was dead. Fury clenched his chest and he had the insane urge just to strangle the thing.

_'Calm, Harry. Calm_,' he thought, taking a deep breath. Harry cleared his mind to the best of his ability and tried to think logically. Sirius hated the elf and the elf hated him. If Harry could make the elf like him then one of the weak links to Voldemort would be conquered. Voldemort's Inner Circle already knew that there was a hateful houself in the Order... all they needed was to play on that if they could reach Kreature somehow. And he couldn't just kill the thing, Hermione would have his head.

But he also had to make use of the malevolent house elf if he didn't want to end up cleaning the house himself. Molly for sure wouldn't let him or Ron use magic if she could help it.

Gathering up his courage, he called out to the demented house elf, "Kreature!" The graying creature turned it's head to the side, a disgusting snarl marring it's wrinkly face.

"What does the blood-treacherous Half-blood want with Kreature?" Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, but was mildly surprised that the house elf was actually listening to him. Maybe he knew that Harry was the new master.

"Kreature, I want you to make an attempt to clean the house," Harry saw Kreature's defiant eyes and he hurried to elaborate, "Because the Most Ancient and Noblest House of Black can't be sullied in case an ally comes over."

Suspicion coated Kreature's inky eyes, and Harry was shocked that he never noticed how much they resembled Snape's. "What allies...? No ally of the House of Black is allowed inside when the blood-traitors are in charge of the Ancestral Black Manor... Little Harry Potter has no authority over Kreature anyway..." The house elf didn't know he was the new Head of Black then.

Harry stood languidly for a moment, staring the house elf down. Then he revealed his be-ringed hands to Kreature's line of sight. "I am the Lord Black, and I_ demand_ you clean this house." He turned around and stomped up the stairs, his trunk trailing behind him.

With this, he failed to notice the deranged house elf fall to his knees with tears of happiness springing up in his eyes.

* * *

><p>He rapped his knuckles against the door, wincing as the rings on his fingers made weird clanging noises. Though he'd never admit it, the new weight on his fingers gave him... comfort... a new sense of something. Like how the weight of his wand felt like power in his grasp.<p>

"'Ome in!" Ron's voice shouted from behind the door. Harry opened it and walked in, cringing at the sheer number of neon orange Chudley Cannon posters that met his gaze.

His friend was lounging on the bed, gorging himself on a chocolate frog. Ron patted to the spot next him on the bed and offered him some of the candy in his pile.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, putting his bag of robes on top of his trunk which rested next to his legs. "Hey Ron."

"Harry!" Ron finished chewing and looked at him, "I can't believe you slept in the Leaky Cauldron! Why didn't you come over here? What did the Order say?" Was it just him, or was there a slightly uncomfortable undertone in his friend's voice?

Harry sighed, but just felt glad to be with his best friend again, "It was in the middle of the night - even later I gather. I didn't want to wake you up. And I don't know what the Order said yet, your mum was just floocalling them when she told me to go find you."

Ron shrugged and got up, going to the closet, "Wait here mate..."

His redheaded friend pulled out a badly wrapped present from the closet and thrust it to him, "Happy late Birthday, Harry! Sorry 'bout not getting it to you on time... Dumbledore said that the Death Eaters could track it - or curse it." Harry smiled grimly at Ron, and took the shabby present onto his lap. It had pained his heart more than Ron could ever have imagined, to only receive a rusty nail from the Dursleys' on his birthday. But Harry messily put that behind him.

Nimble fingers pried open spellotape and tore red wrapping paper only when necessary, savoring the moment. Ron's face shone in anticipation and impatience but kept quiet, nervously wringing his fingers behind his back.

Finally Harry lifted open the small wings of the cardboard box and pulled out a small, black, glass-like rock that shone white when the light hit one of it's few facets.

Noticing Harry questioning face, Ron was quick to explain, "It's a new product from over at the WWW. Peruvian Darkness powder, but in the form of a stone, Fred and George made it by adding some kind of leech blood I think. That's where they are there now, actually, instead of this old house... anyway It's supposed to be really expensive - and even Fred and George don't sell it to just anybody, but since I'm their brother... well, here!" A large smile carved it's way onto Harry's face, genuinely appreciating the gift.

"Thanks mate! Great for when I run into Filch - err, the new caretaker." Harry stumbled, momentarily forgetting Ada Sweetbread.

Ron's eyebrows shot up, "New caretaker? What about Filch?"

"I heard Filch got into some kind of accident. An older lady is replacing him. Ada Sweetbread."

His friend ducked his head and looked up at him, shadowing his face heavily, "Thank Merlin!" He said in a conspiratorial tone before jumping off the bed and doing a happy dace with lots of elbows and jumping and random hollering.

He looked like a fool. But Harry got off the bed did it as well.

"WHAT IS THIS HULLABALOO?" The voice of Molly Weasley raged from the door, behind her was the collective weight of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore looked particularly amused, pushing his half-moon glasses up with his index finger as he smiled.

"That my dear, looks like the happiness of the youth. And I believe this might be because of one Mr. Argus Filch's misfortune...?" Both Ron and Harry were beyond the color of white, being caught in such embarrassing positions. Ron was on the floor mid-worm while Harry was in the middle of a handstand, both previously whooping like their lives depended on it.

Harry gulped, "We're both really worried for Filch -"

"Mr. Filch," Dumbledore corrected benignly.

"Err, yes, Mr. Filch," Harry repeated slightly annoyed at Dumbledore's consistent reminders to respect authority, "And we want him to get better. Honest. He was a really... awesome... caretaker." Mad-Eye Moody snorted behind him and Ron let a small chuckle of mirth bubble out of his chest.

Dumbledore gave him a condescending look, "He lost both of his arms and a leg from a Dark curse my boy, this is nothing to be joyous about." Harry's mind abruptly paused from making _real_ celebration plans. Filch lost... body parts?

Moody's electric blue eye stopped spinning and pinned Harry down with it's gaze, "Didn't know that Potter?" The old Auror's gruff voice snarled out. "Albus is right, no laughing matter. What is even more worrying is that we haven't caught the culprit! Despicable curse that was, no counter has been uncovered yet, even those useless Unspeakables are curious. Beyond the stuff of lower ranking Death Eaters, I assure ya."

Harry immediately felt bad.

"Never the less," Dumebledore cleared his throat, "We have more pressing matters to attend to. How about we go down to the dining room?"

* * *

><p>"YOU FILTHY SCUM! BESMIRCHING THE ANCIENT BLACK NAME WITH YOUR UNWORTHY BLOOD! HOW DARE YOU CONTINUE TO HOLD YOUR HEAD HIGH AS YOU TRAMPLE OVER PUREBLOOD PROPERTY?" Walburga's portrait screeched as they walked by. Harry resisted the urge to cover his ears or claw the banshee out of her painting.<p>

"Wait boy. I want to talk to you," Walburga's demeanor changed a complete one hundred and eighty degrees, and Harry froze in place, turning his head. The rest of the Order stopped as well and Dumbledore gave the portrait an excruciating look.

Walburga Black was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Even in her forties, when this portrait of her was painted, she was quite the looker. Tall with strong features and black hair pinned up on her head, she made a formidable image.

Her voice was as strong as her appearance though.

Walburga sniffed at the attention she was receiving and stared at Harry with stormy blue-gray eyes which were the spitting image of Sirius's. "Tell Kreature to fatten you up. Can't have the new Lord Black so scrawny after all. Don't be afraid to avenge yourself - abusive _muggles_ no less... to the new _Lord Black_, how unforgivable!" She crossed her arms over her chest and looked pointedly away, focusing her eyes on the gold frame, as if she could see it.

Tonks pushed him forward, ushering the Order to keep going. Harry was just dumbstruck that the cold woman that was Sirius's mother actually had the ability to... care?

With a casual flick of his wand, Dumbledore closed the thin velvet curtains surround Walburga Black's portrait while simultaneously opening the door to the dinning room and pulling the chairs out from underneath the table.

Harry was amazed by the sheer power of the magic. Sure he knew Dumbledore was possibly the most competent wizard in the world, but just to see what he was capable of was mind blowing.

Of course, this immediately inspired him to be just as powerful one day.

Harry sat in one of the chairs, and Ron plopped down into the one next to him. Dumbledore took the seat at the head, tucking himself into the throne-like chair with an insanely tall back. The Headmaster carded his fingers together and patiently waited for everyone to get seated.

"Now, I suppose we can get started with this session of the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore voiced, sounding every bit like a patient grandfather softly patronizing young children.

There was a murmur of 'yessirs' and 'of courses''.

Harry lazily scanned the room searching out who was still in the militia. Instinctively, he saw the shape of Mungdungus in the far corner, hidden expertly in the shadows. From what it looked like, he was avoiding the gaze of everyone in the room, opting to play with the tattered ends of his sleeves. As if he knew Harry's gaze were on him, their eyes met.

Mundungus quickly turned his head, albeit too quickly to be considered normal.

Harry let a soft smile shape his lips. The urchin shouldn't have been drinking.

"We'll start with you, Harry, where have you been my boy? I'll admit to being more than a little worried about your disappearance." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, giving Harry's ever there anger a jump start. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he was so angry at the Headmaster, he thought he had forgiven him in his mind. The old man just wanted to know about his well-being. To make sure he wasn't getting captured and tortured by Death Eater's for Merlin's sake!

But could he just ignore the prophecy? The ever-looming destiny that had been assigned to him before he was born? Did he really buy into that bullshit about Dumbledore just wanting him to have normal life? Was it bullshit?

He had forgiven the man... took time to walk in his shoes, and forgave him.

But why did the sparkles that reeked of happiness in the Headmaster's clear blue eyes ignite such a fire in him? This irrational fire that _had to stop_.

"I -" Harry started, a grimace marring his mouth, "I've been around Diagon Alley... stayed at the Leaky Cauldron. Bought some cheap trinkets from the store venders, and no one recognized me - not even Tom." Why did he just lie to the Headmaster? Why was he compelled to smooth out the truth to make it easier for the Order to swallow?

Dumbledore sighed, "I am to guess you will not be willing go back to your relatives. It would be useless anyway, as the protections have fallen... Now where is Kingsley? We seem to be missing him." Harry looked around and was surprised to note that the formidable Auror wasn't there. Kingsley was usually always there for Order meetings - always.

Mad-Eye Moody cleared his throat, "Mission for the Ministry. Scrimgeour said the Unspeakables have uncovered a hidden Death Eater base. I doubt it. Those lazy bastards-" Molly gasped, putting her hand over her mouth but Moody didn't acknowledge her, "-Just sit on their arses all day, spending more time trying to make it look like they're doing work than actually doing the knitty gritty. Boneless slabs, the lot of 'em!"

The Headmaster nodded his head, looking as if he was contemplating the world before him, "I see. Can anybody provide any information about this Death Eater base? I was not previously aware of it." Harry could almost see Dumbledore's inner pain at admitting he wasn't completely omniscient. Hell, It probably was painful.

Especially because of the tension going on between the Order and the Ministry.

Tonks's hair changed to a shocking blue, reminiscent to the color of Moody's magical eyeball. She raised her hand, "It's not too far from here. Someone spotted black cloaked figures walk into the house."

"Thank you Nymphadora," Dumbledore nodded, and Tonks let an annoyed look cross her face before puckering her lips. "Tonks, Headmaster," she mumbled beneath her breath but everybody heard.

"Albus, if I may..." Hestia Jones started, "I have suspicion that the Death Eater faction in the Wizengamot is 'recruiting' so to speak. I overheard Nott boasting about him gaining a new seat from the the Bagshots'." She finished sagely, letting her hair fall over her eyes.

"So it's starting," Moody replied gruffly, making everyone turn to look at him, "Honestly expected them to dig their claws into the Wizengamot sooner. Only time before Voldemort starts passing through the laws _he_ wants."

* * *

><p>Harry leaned his head against his arm, trying not to fall asleep. The Order meeting was interesting at the beginning, and even Ron was sitting at the edge of his seat. But soon after all the juicy stuff passed, only rumors and unconfirmed suspicions were left.<p>

A knock was heard at the door and it seemed everyone had their wand at the ready, pointing towards the intruder. It slowly opened and the head of Hermione peeked out before she brought her whole body into the dining room.

She was different. Her hair was sleek caramel color, and she glowed with good health. Around Hermione's neck was a string of pearls that gave the witch a more sophisticated air.

Hermione took one look at him and jumped into his arms, "Oh Harry! I'm so sorry!" Harry wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. The apology was genuine, and somehow more meaningful than Ron's... who was chewing food at the time.

She looked at him with tears in her eyes and then at Bird, who's beady eyes stared at her back, "I didn't know you got a replacement for Hedwig so quickly. But I suppose it's logical - I mean you need something to send post with."

"What? What about Hedwig?" Harry asked with trepidation, suddenly feeling like he was just dunked into ice water.

Hermione's expressive brown eyes showed shock, "You don't know? Ron, why didn't you tell him!" Harry looked back at his redheaded friend who's face was an ashen color, then at the rest of the Weasleys who wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Mate," Ron chocked out, voice breaking, "I didn't know how to tell you. I mean how do tell your best friend that his bird... well you know."

"No Ron, I don't know," Harry grit out, wishing everybody wasn't suddenly so evasive.

"Hedwig.. er... it was right after you went to the Dursley's. Fred and George were tampering with their Canary Creams, spelling on compulsion charms and Hedwig... ate one. We couldn't stop her, she just flew down and picked it up with her beak and... she exploded." Harry felt his world spin to a stop. No... not right after Sirius...

His first friend, the one who understood him better than anybody else. Loyal without fault and had the determination of a bulldog. She couldn't have died. Not like that.

...Exploded...?

Harry imagined Hedwig's flesh flying all over, hitting furniture and feathers drifting in the wind.

Hermione wiped his face with her hand, and Harry then realized he was crying. She hugged him harder, hiding his face in her shoulder giving him a modicum of privacy. Sobs continually racked his body, but sounds never left his mouth.

From behind him, he heard Moody and the words he spoke grated on his insides like sandpaper, "Just an animal, lad. Everybody loses somebody, man up, if Dark Wizards see you like this they'll tear ya' up." Harry felt his lips twist into a snarl, wishing more than ever that the hardened Auror would for once drop his two cents to the ground instead of flinging them at him.

He felt someone's hand pat his back and he knew without looking it was Ron's. It was shaking, and Harry could imagine the tears running down the redhead's face. How dare Ron not tell him something so important? He knew how much Hedwig meant to him, yet he couldn't have written that down in one of the letters sent to him? Harry could have grieved for Hedwig and Sirius both, instead of one hit after another.

Never feeling those soft feathers brush his hand ever again, or staring into those intelligent amber eyes. Never again having the excuse to visit his owl up in the owlry just to be alone. No one would mourn as much as him.

And where were Fred and George? Why didn't they tell him? His partners in crime, his trusted business associates? If he had expected anyone to write to him about Hedwig, it would be the twins.

The brief thought of using soul magic swept into his mind but he immediately pushed out the thought, remembering the exact words of the book.

_"Once a soul is gone, it's gone."_

* * *

><p>Numbness seeped into his bones and he stared expressionlessly at the window, ignoring Hermione and Ron quietly chattering on the couch opposing the one he was on. Ron was slouching and looking at his freckled hands with a frown, murmuring things about being a better prefect this year.<p>

Somehow he couldn't muster up any anger at Ron or the twins. Sure, not telling him about Hedwig wasn't a very Gryffindor thing to do... but no one wanted to be the bearer of bad news.

Hedwig wasn't coming back, but for now...

He clutched a white feather in his hand, gripping it even tighter. This would have to do.

Light footsteps played in the soundless air as Ginny descended from a hallway on Harry's right, smiling prettily. "Harry! How are you?" She moved to sit on the same couch as him, and Harry automatically stiffened before making himself relax.

She wasn't allowed in the Order meetings yet, Molly wouldn't let her youngest child become more involved in the war then she already was.

Ginny offered Hermione and Ron a slightly amused look and flicked back a strand of red hair, licking her lips slightly while gazing at Harry nervously. "Are you alright?" Harry simply turned his head toward her, letting Ginny have a look straight into the depths of his eyes.

She flinched and turned away, clasping her hands together in her lap and hunching her shoulders. "I'm sorry Harry, that was a stupid question."

Harry gazed back at the window, letting Ginny's strong scent of strawberries and apple pie encompass him. It was good smell, he decided, sweet and playful. Different from how Hermione smelt like new parchment and freesia.

A sudden bang brought him out of wallowing in his thoughts. he whipped his head towards the noise and got up, looking to see seeing if everything was alright, his friends right behind him.

Harry stepped into the foyer and abruptly took a step back in shock. People clamored all around him, running to get supplies because of the wizard fallen in the center of the room.

Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was badly wounded, open gashes littered his body and thin yet deep cuts crisscrossed over dark skin. His arms were battered and bent in angles they shouldn't be.

"What happened?" Harry shouted to the frantic Order, but his question only fell on deaf ears.

* * *

><p><strong>AN - Hope you enjoyed it. **

**I'm sick right now. It sucks. My Easter break isn't even a whole week long (starts April 20th...?). I have an English essay to do. My eleven-year-old sister had a birthday party last night in which she invited ten of her friends to sleep over and they tried to open the door to my room (I locked it) all night by ramming a bobby pin through the small key whole and jiggling the doorknob like their lives depended on it. **

**I got no sleep... but I definitely took a water gun and sprayed them in _their_ sleep.**

**Anyway, next chapter will be up hopefully by the end of next week or so, depending on the amount of homework my teachers assign and how much sleep I wish to lose. **

**I'm going to answer somebody's question... Yes Harry will use more than Voodoo Dolls in this fic. Sirius said that he thought Voodoo was the most interesting part of the book, but that doesn't mean Harry will ignore everything else the book details on. **

**REVIEW. It's the only thing that keeps me going now days.**

**Review, Review, Review, Review, Review.  
><strong>


	4. Chapter 4: Mental

**Disclaimer: If you think I own Harry Potter, then GO AWAY.**

**A/N - Long chapter. But watch for grammar, it's particularly poor. **

"Mrs. Weasley!" Harry yelled loudly. The sound hooked onto the Weasley mother's attention and forcibly made her acknowledge him, despite having more important things to do.

"Dear?" She asked breathlessly, running towards him and skillfully blocking the view of Kingsley Shacklebolt's body with her impressive girth. "What's wrong? Why are you here?"

Harry lightly bit the inside of his lip to keep from screaming at her. The most oblivious flobberworm would know exactly why he was here and what he wanted to know. "What happened to Kingsley?" He demanded.

Mrs. Weasley breathed deeply for a few moments before piercing him with her watery gaze, "He was struck by a nasty, nasty hex, dear." Harry could tell she wanted to stop talking, but he pressured her to continue with his gaze. And she did, after wiping her sweaty hands on her robes. "It's called the 'Curse of Vilis'. The poor man is trapped in his mind... in dreadful pain. Albus mentioned that unusually strong wizards could fight their way out, but Kingsley seems to be... not coping very well." She paused for a moment looking somewhere to the side, "Oh dear - if you'll excuse me I believe Poppy needs some knotgrass! And all of you - Kingsley will survive so don't worry even a bit!" She exclaimed quickly, wiping her eyes with the insides of her wrists and quickly dashed away from Harry's sight.

Hermione let out a sob, "Merlin..." she croaked, crossing her arms over her chest protectively, "Those terrible Death Eaters, always wanting their fill of torture even when they can't have the pleasure of seeing it themselves!"

Harry nodded grimly, "I hope he makes it," he said softly. "You heard Mrs. Weasley. She says it's a high possibility he'll survive-"

"No he won't," Hermione cut in harshly. "Did you see her eyes? She didn't believe a word of what she was saying. Mrs. Wealsey just wants to coddle us, to make us more hopeful."

Ron's blue eyes sought out his for support, "But what about Dumbledore Hermione? The greatest wizard of our age, surely he can find something..." he trailed off.

"Does it even matter Ron?" Ginny chided lightly, copying Hermione's stance, "That he's the greatest wizard of our age? You and I both know that some kinds magic are created to do more damage than a 'Reducto'."

The male redhead looked down, "Do you think Dumbledore'll tell us? The truth?"

Harry shook his head, "He's rather evasive. It'll be worse than your mum Ron, he'd probably smooth out every gory detail - he even does it to the Order." Harry frowned, the prophecy springing up in his mind again. _Power of Love_ aka everything he had never known himself.

Dumbledore was a powerful wizard. Best in the world probably, but he could never give a straight answer.

"Couldn't we check though? Just to see if -" Ron started but was cut by Hermione.

"He's a busy man Ronald, probably up to his neck with... Kingsley's... you heard how he was trying to find a cure. We would just be delaying him."

Harry peaked out of the corner of his eye, "The Headmaster doesn't seem to be doing anything right now. He's been looking at Kingsley for a while..." Ron nodded furiously and pulled the hand of his sister towards the famed wizard. Harry and Hermione looked at each other before following the two redheads.

In the back of Harry's mind, he hoped it would be worth it. Not just more rubbish being spewed from the Headmaster's mouth... or half-truths.

* * *

><p>"Headmaster!" Hermione cried out as they neared the aged wizard. Harry noted that the Headmaster looked especially solemn, eyes absent of their normal twinkle and instead resembling hard diamonds alight with cold fire.<p>

Harry was almost scared to approach the man when he saw that look in those blue eyes. The newspapers used to say he was going senile with old age - but the Albus Dumbledore in front of him was almost anything but. Sure he had crazy ideas, and insanely complicated schemes, but age didn't diminish his magical talent the slightest.

He should know that best.

Hermione slowed after seeing the Headmaster's face, form hunched over Kingsley's body. "Headmaster..." she swallowed, "We were wondering if you could tell us what happened. No one else will."

Dumbledore's face turned towards them and softened, "It's a terrible tale, I'm afraid. Thankfully the Dark curse left some trace of the caster... I've concurred it was Rodolphus Lestrange, having seen some of his other victims with the same essence that Kingsley has." At Hermione's blank look Dumbledore elaborated. "You see Miss Granger, every Dark wizard has their own kind of essence that is left upon the victim... the Ministry is quite ignorant of this practice, finding it extremely inaccurate as someone of great caliber such as Voldemort could remove or copy someone else's essence... but I think the opposite of the majority. Actually, the practice of Tracking is quite difficult and it's hard for most of the Ministry to admit that they can't do it themselves..." he chuckled, as if enjoying his own joke.

"Kingsley is suffering from the 'Curse of Vilis'... I think Mrs. Weasley had explained it to you quite thoroughly. The only solace I can take is that Rodolphus must be suffering from the aftershocks of such a curse, it's not easy to cast after all. Rodolphus is as formidable as his wife, and a weakened Rodolphus is something we shouldn't look down upon but rather take advantage of." Dumbledore smoothed down his eccentric yellow robes, making the bumblebees on them fly into their hives.

Hermione bit her lip, "Why isn't he in St. Mungo's? Wouldn't he get better care there?"

Dumbledore softly shook his head, "They are very busy at the moment my dear. Voldemort has been very active as of late, and magically injured muggles are now simply being diagnosed with a common disease and thrown into muggle hospitals. Certified healers lack the time to properly care for Kingsley... I've checked in with the head of the Auror department and he's agreed to letting me and Madame Pomfrey heal Kingsley, having heard the name of the curse.

Now, if you all will excuse me... I must consult some of my books. I think I may have remembered something about healing stones." He regally swept away from them, powerful aura swirling around him.

Harry had made sure not to make eye contact with the Headmaster. Dumbledore had admitted before that Legilimency wasn't his forte - not as much as Occlumency was anyway, but it didn't mean he still couldn't do it.

But the practice of _Tracking_ was news to him. Harry would have to fine tune himself into... keeping his essence to himself so it couldn't be tracked. When he delved into Dark Magic.

With one last pitying look at an abnormally still Kingsley, Harry breathed out a shuddering breath. If he delved into Dark Magic.

* * *

><p>"Hermione," Harry started slowly, "Could we research about the 'Curse of Vilis,' too? I mean the Blacks do have a library right? Wouldn't it make sense that dark families have books on dark curses?"<p>

His bookish friend hummed, penning down a few more words to her History Essay before looking up at him, "We're not allowed... Mrs. Weasley says that there are very dangerous books in the library, and doesn't want us touching them."

Harry blinked at her, dumbfounded for a moment, "But Hermione... books. Dumbledore is researching his stash - we should research in ours, I mean, Kingsley could _die_."

This seemed to bring her out of some sort of daze. She swallowed uncomfortably, looking torn in between the familiar war of following the authority figures and breaking the rules for something greater. A gloom settled upon her face, but a determined light entered her eyes, "... we could try, couldn't we? Break the rules again by sifting through a few books in his name... Let's go." She grabbed his arms and practically dragged him toward the library.

"Here it is," Harry said nervously, half thinking of Kingsley and half what he could research on about the... path he was pursuing. Through the grand glass french double doors, books filed _stories_ high on their extremely tall wooden shelves taunted him, indecipherable mocking gold titles shimmering in the dim light.

Hermione merely nodded, and pulled on the golden handles.

It didn't open.

She tugged again... and again... and again. Even pulling her wand out to whisper an _'Alohomora',_ and other unlocking spells. The sheer amount of unlocking spells she knew surprised Harry somewhat, though he realized, it really shouldn't have. Smartest witch of their age and all.

It still didn't open.

Hermione grumbled, eying the books inside with what Harry could very well call_ lust_. "Harry this is stupid. There must be some sort of charm on the doors..." He grumbled unintelligibly in response, plans involving the books inside crashing around him.

Suddenly a sly thought crossed his mind. He looked down at his bejeweled hands and watched as the Black ring gave a cruel sparkle.

A small diamond-shaped nick under the handle, designed to look like a part of the elaborate carvings around the glass gave a returning seemingly natural gleam.

_'Hermione wouldn't have approved anyway'_, Harry thought. Seeing what was inside those books. He could go himself - in the middle of the night when no one was watching. Grab a book or two and hightail back to his room. No one would be the wiser, and Mrs. Weasley wouldn't get the idea to burn the priceless tomes on the spot.

"Sirius must have had the key..." Hermione mumbled. "Or the spell. As the last Lord of Black, he probably had the power to open the door - or his horrendous mother could have locked it before she died." She smoothed down her fitting robes and turned around, stalking away from the library while sneaking a few looks from behind her shoulder.

Harry watched her until she turned the corner, waiting for the soft footsteps to vanish into silence. "Kreature," He whispered harshly and the house elf popped into the room, bowing low until his nose touched the ground.

"How may Kreature help Master?" Harry couldn't discern anything but sincerity and adulation from his tone of voice and he suddenly felt creeped out. Did the Black ring really have that much of an affect on the house elf?

Harry cleared his throat, "I wish to retire early... and I don't want to sleep in the same room as Ron Weasley tonight," He said smoothly, hoping it was... 'aristocratic' enough to keep the house elf's faith in him.

Hermione would have choked him.

Kreature's eyes flashed with anger, "Master shouldn't have to sleep anywhere near a blood-traitor! Come, Master, you can sleep in Mistress Walburga's room, it is cleaned." The house elf tipped his head up, reminding Harry of Percy, and escorted Harry all the way towards the room.

It was clean... very clean, more than Petunia-clean. Gothic furniture styled themselves around the room and a grand canopy bed was backed against the wall.

"Kreature can you put my stuff in here?" Harry asked the house elf, who popped out and in back with his luggage before he could blink. Harry nodded his thanks and the obedient house elf popped out again, leaving Harry alone.

He moved his things near the bed and took out the_ 'Cura Opus'_ that he had bought in Diagon Alley. Popping open the cork he quickly drained the bottle, wincing as the sickening taste of pure citrus slowly slid down his throat to his stomach.

Agony and nausea washed over him and he fell down on the bed, muscles feeling more fatigued than they had ever felt before. Lifting a shaky hand he clamped the limb over his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting out the vile potion.

His brain started sizzling like it was being roasted over a fire and his stomach violently ached. Cold sweat beaded on his brows, rolling down his face and under his chin, mixing with the warm tears that spilled from his eyes.

Within ten seconds it was over. The fatigue left his limbs and the aching stopped.

Slowly he lifted himself off the bed, looking with mild disgust at the pool of sweat his back made on the expensive bed.

Looking at the full length mirror he admired himself, how he wasn't thin anymore and rather toned. Harry had a moderately different build than Ron, being a bit more muscular than the redhead. Ron had always been lanky, but now they were the same height.

He still had a seeker's build though. Which was good.

* * *

><p>Darkness gave the Ancestral Black Manor a spooky appearance, heavy shadows clinging and being cast from antique furniture. Harry fidgeted with the sleeves of his Thestral cloak, nervously feeling over the Black ring with his thumb. His invisibility cloak was worn on top of the Thestral one, concealing his silhouette.<p>

The Thestral cloak gave him comfort, almost humming in pleasure, as if it were alive, at the ambiance of Dark Magic saturated into the walls of the manor.

Dumbledore had once joked that even muggles a mile away could feel that something was wrong with this part of the Grimmauld Place, even though they couldn't see the house. Buildings around number twelve were littered with signs that exclaimed 'For Sale' and hungry clouds loomed above the community, making the setting eerie and forbidding, like the muggles weren't _supposed_ to be there.

Harry pressed his hand against the glass doors of the forbidden library, feeling a warm sensation tempting him inside. This was the feeling that he expected from the book Sirius had given him.

Timidly he bent his middle finger and pushed the Black ring into the niche below one of the gilded handles. A quiet click was heard and Harry slowly pushed open the door, relieved that it hadn't creaked like the Dursley's did.

Pulling the doors shut behind him, he walked to the closest shelf of books, careful not to touch anything. None of the tomes seemed to be organized in any particular order, not by author, title or even color

_"Beautiful Curses: The Ones That Make Their Heart Pound,"_ Harry mumbled the title aloud and picked up the book, fingering through the first few pages. Sirius had mentioned in passing that none of the books in the house were cursed because of the possibility that children could touch them. Artifacts, though, couldn't be held in a more different regard.

Music boxes that sang you sleep; clocks whose every separate tick broke a bone in your body; snow globes that you couldn't look away from even as your eyes start to bleed rivulets of blood.

The book seemed to be filled with spells for specific illusions, ones that seduced the victim into thinking something that they normally wouldn't. Like for example the _"Amorificus"_ could delude someone into thinking the caster was the most gorgeous _woman_ in the world, even if the caster was a man himself. It had the side effect of the victim developing an unhealthy obsession with the one who cursed them, going so far as to kill others for associating with them in extreme cases.

Harry quickly put the book back, jerking his hand back as if he were just bitten by a snake. Not what he was looking for. Definitely not.

Resuming his skimming of the titles, he chose the book _"Introduction to the Dark Arts,"_ for more information on what he was exactly getting in to. Further down he went, eyes moving as fast as Moody's to catch the titles.

He realized that the farther down he went the more darker the books became... like rituals and heavy Dark Arts. Harry bit the inside of his cheek while eying a book on how to properly sacrifice your children.

Out of disgusted curiosity he picked it up and opened to a random page in the tome.

_"-to prepare the boy, sprinkle a bit of Hecate's Rose onto him to draw any Lux out of his system. If his eyes are blue, gorging them out will result in better results, but if they are green, keep them in the head. Now throw him into the fire, while reciting the spell written earlier in the chapter. If the fire turns gray, run away for you have angered the divine spirit. _

_If the fire stays the same color as when it was first started, and the child burns, wait until it is properly burnt to ash before -"_

Harry's face twisted and he shoved the book back onto the shelf. Just how much that article resembled a cooking recipe...

What psychopath would actually do that to their own child? To... gouge out their eyes and set it on fire...?

He let a shiver run up his spine. Hopefully it wouldn't get any worse than that.

Looking down the hall that never seemed to end he decided that perhaps... it could be. Steeling his gut he marched forward with Kingsley's frozen face in the forefront of his mind.

* * *

><p>Harry clutched his little stack of books with a tendon of pride. After a few hours, or it seemed so, he had discovered certain Potions could give Kingsley's conscience much more strength and break through the mental walls around his mind. But the process of making the potion involved ingredients that normally wouldn't be found in the average household... well when was the Ancestral Black Manor a normal home?<p>

There was also the small fact that for the Potion to work the mental shields needed to have... some kind of crack in it. While stronger wizards would just overpower the shields so it exploded like glass, other wizards needed more aid because it wasn't rightfully their own strength.

For this he would need to learn Legilimency, or at least a modicum of it. So far from what he read in, _"Minds beneath the skull,"_ he had already shown some aptitude in it. When he had used the _'Legilimens,'_ spell on Snape and got it on the first try. Also it seemed, people that had a talent for Legilimency weren't very good at Occlumency and vise versa... excluding the oddities like Snape and Voldemort.

Then finally... he found a book on Tracking/Essence.

Harry ran a nervous hand through his inky hair; hair that was no longer a wild mess. No one had commented on it yet... but it could just be because of all that had just happened.

Before he knew what was going on he found his face firmly planted on the ground and his index finger stinging, small pile of books strewn across the floor.

Goddammit did he just _trip_?

With a muttered curse, he brought his index finger into his line of sight, watching as crimson blood pooled around a thin cut. Harry got up from his undignified position on the ground and inspected the floor before him.

In the place where he just tripped was a single parchment with burnt edges, and smoky ink that floated across the paper but dry to the touch. Like the Marauders' Map. He watch with interest as the ink formed a large tree, branches holding the faces his family.

His head was at the very center and bottom, the faces of his parents directly above him. Harry studied his map, noticing that the line connecting his parents was a gold color while the line connecting him to his parents was red. With hunger he followed a green line that connected his grandfather with his two brothers, taking special interest in his father's side of the family tree because they were the magical ones. The ones that would be written about in the books everyone would read.

Harry picked up the paper and cringed when he noticed the green line connecting one Lily Potter nee Evans and Petunia Dursley nee Evans. There were so many differences between the two, physical and otherwise... he had hoped in the deep recesses of his mind that they weren't related. Petunia's horse-like face shied away from him, sneering like he was a disgusting bug not even worth the squashing of her foot, while his mother smiled up at him with sparkling eyes.

From his peripheral vision a flicker of red appeared before vanishing in the thick shadows of the immense collection of books.

* * *

><p>Harry slipped off his Thestral cloak, watching it pool around his feet for a moment before moving to sit on his bed. Four books were strewn across the mattress, titles weathered and binds worn.<p>

_Introduction to the Dark Arts _

_Minds beneath the Skull _

_Reversing the Irreversible: Theory and Going about it. _

_Tracking: A Technique._

The title-less book on souls rested in his trunk.

He cast a dubious look at his trunk. He really didn't think it could keep out anything more than a mediocre third-year. After all, he did ward it on a whim in _his_ third year because he spotted Seamus Finnigan rooting through it. For rare Chocolate Frog card that seemed to have vanished from his collection.

His jaw tightened. Harry wasn't dumb. Seamus Finnigan didn't _have_ a Chocolate Frog collection.

Let out a sharp breath, he sprawled himself across Walburga's bed and grabbed _'Reversing the Irreversible'_, soon becoming engrossed and the restlessness slowly leaving his body. The book itself was thin, but packed with knowledge.

From what he gathered, he needed to make his own cure, and the book was filled with different building blocks that he could put together to receive the desired end result.

Cures that were potions were easier to make. And his potion needed to specifically give Kingsley's subconscious more strength... to set him free. Flipping through the book, he eventually he found what he was looking for. Re'em blood would gave the user super strength for a short while and Blue Dittany would transfer the strength into his mind instead of his physical body. Problem? Both ingredients were polar opposites of each other and would explode if they were even within the same vicinity of each other... that and he wasn't a potions expert.

The only person who he knew that could play around with ingredients like this was Snape, and he wasn't going to him for help. Hermione might... except that Re'ems were on borderline extinction, and she had a soft spot for those kind of creatures. She might not even have the skill to do it anyway - she barely made NEWTS Potions. Though that could just be Snape's terrible teaching skills and bias.

A whisper of something floated into his mind. It was worth a try. "Kreature!"

The house elf popped into his room with a smile, "Yes Master?"

Harry eyed the small creature prospectively, "...Did your Mistress ever require help with her Potions?"

* * *

><p>"This way Master. Only someone with the Black ring can open it," Kreature instructed, pointing down an abandoned hallway.<p>

In Harry's arms he held a jug of Re'em blood, fresh from Cygnus Black's illegal ingredient cupboard and a plethora of other things. Fermented fairy wings to treat the water, Newt eyeballs to lessen the impact of the two ingredients coming together...

Harry had long since realized that the majority of the potion ingredients were just stabilizers for the more potent stuff.

They reached the little closet that Kreature had dragged him to. The house elf had insisted that they had to come here for the last ingredient but wouldn't tell him what it was.

Quickly, he inserted his ring into the little niche under the doorknob and pulled when he heard a little cling.

He gasped in horror, catching himself from vomiting at the sight that met him, "Hell, Kreature..." he choked out, clutching his neck.

Kreature went inside with a knife Harry didn't know he had and stepped near one of the mutilated humans, plunging the knife in and carving out one of her organs. The liver.

Harry put his hand to his mouth and looked away to the sight. A whole massacre in one small, inconspicuous closet. "Kreature..."

"Kreature can't open the door by himself," The house elf chided, "Liver is the last thing we need. Now you can go make the potion. If Kreature had told you we were coming for livers before we came to the closet, you wouldn't have opened the door. You need the potion, and Kreature will help Master however possible."

* * *

><p>Harry slowly inserted a syringe into the potion he had made. It was a murky red in color and smelt of strongly of rust. There was no script telling him what the end result was suppose to look like, so he just had to wing it.<p>

_'Wing it on a human life,' _a voice in the back of his head said.

He took the syringe full of potion and hid it in the inner pocket of his Thestral cloak. Harry strode out of Walburga's room,

Dumbledore met him down the stairs, eying his cloak for a moment, "It seems you did some extra shopping in Diagon Alley?"

"Yes sir. My other stuff is too short," Harry easily replied.

"Exotic skins can do wonders to a man," Dumbledore complimented, "On another note I was actually looking for you my boy. I was curious as to your position on attending Sirius's will? My understanding is that it may bring up bad memories - the wounds are still fresh after all-"

"I'll go Headmaster," Harry said confidently, "It will be good for me... I think, the closure." His voice broke near the end, and he bit the inside of his lip to keep the gut-wrenching feeling of loss from going any further.

Dumbledore nodded his head in understanding, "Perhaps I had underestimated your bravery, yet again. The Portkey will be ready in a few minutes, so we should get going." With that he slowly turned around, gripping the staircase railing as he descended as if he thought he would trip.

"-Wait, Headmaster!" Harry called out before Dumbledore fully turned the corner. Clear blue eyes looked back at him, prompting words to spill from his mouth.

"Do you have something you would like to tell me?" Dumbledore questioned politely as Harry gathered his wits.

"Have... have you found a cure yet? For Kingsley?...Wouldn't Legilimency work? It's a mind art, right?"

The same, cold yet sad look washed over Dumbledore's face and Harry just for a moment regretted bring the topic back to hand.

"I'm afraid that I can't do anything for Kingsley," The Headmaster eventually spoke, "Legilimency isn't my strong point - and no one in the Order has enough talent in the art. Even still, the curse is highly resistant to intrusion. We just have to hope Kingsley is stronger than Rodolphus Lestrange - or at least his will is."

"What about Snape?" Harry asked, shoving the cold feeling away. He had hoped... to some extent that the Headmaster would have found something and he wouldn't have to... use the potion inside his pocket.

The one that used a human body part. The one that was Dark and made by a mediocre Potioneer under the guidance of a house elf.

Two perfectly white, crinkled hands seemed to turn even paler as they gripped the railing tighter, "Severus is in a tight spot - he is unable to leave Voldemort's manor, and is forced to become his permanent Potionsmaster." Dumbledore said the words hoarsely, like he was in need of water.

Harry was tempted to offer him the drink, but kept quiet. "Who will teach Potions then?" The new thought worried him more than he thought it would. Snape was a terrible teacher - and Harry hated him as much as Snape hated Harry, but Snape was actually a competent in Potions and dueling.

Another Lockhart wouldn't be desirable.

Dumbledore started walking back up the stairs, "I was actually hoping that an old acquaintance of mine... Horace Slughorn would replace Severus. He taught your parents you know - grandparents as well!"

But Harry wasn't fazed. "Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"I'm not quite sure... there have been a few applicants but none seem to be qualified. I'm afraid I will have to procrastinate on that matter." Dumbledore shook his head.

Harry steeled his guts. He was going to ask. "Headmaster... about Kingsley... is there really no way to cure him?"

Dumbledore looked at his feet for a moment, half-moon glasses glinting, "Kingsley will have to do this by himself I'm afraid. There is a very good chance he will pull through, though, given his strong nature." Dumbledore gave a faltering smile. Harry, in his gut, didn't believe a word of it. Just the way Dumbledore's clear blue eyes turned a more watery shade... the Headmaster was just trying to breed false hope. Again.

"Headmaster, what about Potions? Isn't their something...? _Anything_...?" Harry practically begged, the ghost of a hopeless expression appearing on his face. The full syringe in his pocket practically burned. While he was making the potion, Harry was always half-thinking that he'd never use it. That the murky red cure wouldn't be needed, and Harry wouldn't have to learn Legilimency.

That Dumbledore would fix it.

The Headmaster's eyes widened for a second and before Harry could have process what the old man was doing, Dumbledore took both of Harry's shoulders in his strong grip and held him in place. "Harry, reel in your desperation, the path of which you seek isn't the one to take, it's all deceit and lies," the Headmaster pleaded.

"I'm not turning Dark!" Harry shouted in hysteria, "I'm not! I just want Kingsley to live," he choked out, the syringe in his inner pocket weighing half a ton.

Dumbledore took both of his hand placed them on either sides of Harry's face, "You are _unstable_... _depressed_ and _angry_," he stressed, "Depressed, angry and scared. You've lost so much so fast, my boy... here come sit." The Headmaster sat on the stairs and Harry grudgingly sat down with him, still breathing heavily.

"Let me tell you something... It is generally said that bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. But sometimes, good things can happen to good people and bad things can happen to bad people too, Harry. " Harry peered quickly into Dumbledore's eyes to see nothing but pleading hope.

"I know, Headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded softly in acceptance, "He's in a better place my boy. Death is the next great adventure." He reluctantly stood back up. "Come eat before we leave Harry, food for thought." The Headmaster retreated back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Harry watched him until he could no longer see the old wizard before curling around the stairs.

What had he done? The Dark Arts were bad. They were very bad. The Death Eaters and Voldemort used the Dark Arts and they killed his parents - they tortured the friends and family of the people he cared about most.

Slowly he gathered himself and stood up, gripping the railing just as hard as Dumbledore had done, and pushed himself to get some food.

He entered the kitchen and sat in the chair next to Ron. The redhead wouldn't meet his eyes and instead started to pick at his food with an unhealthy look on his face.

"Hey Ron," Harry greeted, his voice nothing but a whisper.

Ron nodded at him, but didn't meet his gaze, "Harry... I'm sorry about Hedwig and all-"

Harry cut him off, "It's okay. I wouldn't have known what to do in your position either." Ron shook his head slightly in response.

"But your still mad."

"No, I'm not," Harry denied softly, feeling the gaze of Hermione on him. She didn't intrude on their conversation, opting to watch rather than interrupt.

"You... you slept somewhere else last night." Realization hit Harry and he turned to look at Ron full on than rather his food.

"I just needed time to think. Really. And Kreature insisted."

Ron chuckled, blue eyes regaining a healthy shine to them but were still somber, "Bet you a sickle that you agreed with Kreature only so you could wallow in self-pity." Harry laughed uncomfortably at that, wondering if Ron was trying to lighten the mood or not.

"You got me," Harry responded tightly, taking a bit out of buttered toast. He could never bear the taste of jam like Ron could.

Dumbledore, who was eating at the head of the table, stopped and stood up. Clutching an old beer bottle in his hand. "Harry it's time for the will." Harry stuffed the last bit of toast in his mouth and gulped down the half-full glass of orange juice before swallowing and getting up from his spot on his chair. With the back of his hand he wiped the crumbs from the sides of his mouth and bade Ron and Hermione a good-bye.

The Headmaster looked down at him, "This is the portkey to Gringotts. Grab a hold, my boy." Doing what Dumbledore asked of him, he gripped the bottle and closed his eyes tight as a sense of vertigo washed over him.

* * *

><p>Harry smoothed his dirty blond hair, eying a piece of it from the corner of his eye.<p>

Blond wasn't his hair color. And black eyes didn't suit him either.

"Wait here, I will inform Griphook that we are here for the will," Dumbledore swept from his side and went to a goblin teller, who looked at the Headmaster with utter suspicion and wore a dirty scowl even though the Headmaster was a well-known figure.

_"And who might you be...?"_ Harry resisted the urge to laugh at the Goblin's antics and the way Dumbledore calmly started to explain who he was.

_"Why Griphook! I had just conversed with you not a day ago about the positives and negatives of lustrous gold! Surely you don't -" _

_"No." _

_"My memory must be a tad faulty then... I'm Albus Percivial Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and Harry Potter and I are here for Sirius Black's will." _

_"Do you have proof you are indeed the real Albus Dumbledore? Impostors rates have been high these past few weeks." _

_"I'm afraid my blood isn't something I give so freely... would a key be acceptable? Do you need proof for Mr. Potter as well?" _

_"I know who Harry Potter is you _wizard_. And no, only blood." _

_"What about-"_

Harry had a feeling that the 'conversation' between Griphook and the Headmaster would go one for quite sometime. He lazily scanned the bank, looking for something to ease his sudden boredom. His friends couldn't go with him to the bank, as Dumbledore had forbade their attendance.

Harry grudgingly supposed he had good reason to. From what he gathered, the majority of Lords and Ladies were blood purists and - well - Ron was a labeled blood-traitor and Hermione was a muggleborn.

He currently felt like a child who was just told by his parents to wait for five minutes.

"-Thank You," A feminine voice answered, tone tight.

Harry turned to watch a familiar Gryffindor Chaser tap her foot again the bank's floor, arms crossed and lips pressed together as she waited for the Goblin teller.

Peony pink, full, luscious lips, mind.

"...Katie?" Harry asked, walking up to her.

She snapped out of her daze, and looked at him oddly, "Who are you?"

Harry let a smile come onto his face, "Harry Potter, of course." At her blank look he decided to elaborate, "Gryffindor seeker... Quidditch captain this year... black-haired boy with green eyes...?"

"Alright, if you really are Harry James Potter, tell me who almost killed me in Quidditch last year?"

"Warrington," he replied stiffly.

Katie's eyes softened, "It's not everyday the Boy-Who-Lived graces Diagon Alley with his marvelous presence is it? Had to make sure it wasn't that Smith kid... I swear he was trying to look up my skirt one time in Hogsmeade!" She frowned, a twitch starting under her right eye, "Took a page out of Ginny's book and hexed him with the Bat-Boogey, and let me tell you, there were more bats there than there should have been."

Harry smothered a laugh with his hand, "I can take care of him if you'd like."

Katie offered him a smile, "Thanks, but no thanks. I'd like to hit him a couple times first... preferably in a public place. No offense to you Harry - but too many guys are bastards that think 'no' is 'yes' and 'yes' is 'yes'... I swear, that much persistence is a _bad_ thing." She paused for a second, "So what are you doing here at Gringotts Harry?"

Harry made a light humming sound, "Will. Sirius Black's-" he stopped at her horrified gasp, "He was _framed_, Katie, framed by Peter Pettigrew in fact. Sirius is innocent... but was killed by Death Eaters in the Ministry, fighting for our side."

The Gryffindor chaser looked at him with those deep brown eyes for what felt like minutes, "If your sure," she sighed, "Prophet spews rubbish, anyway. Did you hear about Amelia and Susan Bones? It was in the Prophet, but... I don't know whether to believe it or not, seeing as it isn't very reliable... but then again since the paper is Ministry controlled and Madam Bones is part of Ministry..."

"Who was the article by?" Harry asked, remembering reading that same article in the Leaky Cauldron.

As long as it wasn't written by Betty Braithewait or Rita Skeeter...

Katie paused at the question, "I honestly don't even remember who writes the articles in the paper half the time. Just something I skip over... unless it's that Skeeter woman of course."

"I read about that article by Betty Braithewait-" Harry started only to be cut off by a suddenly furious chaser.

"Oh yes! That _woman_... I met up with Alicia and Angelina the other day and we all read that utter rubbish! The _gall_ of that - that, _thing_, to call you a _coward_! And we're not the only ones too, more than half the Wizarding World is calling for her head... and as much as I hate to admit it, the minority believe she's _right_..." Her cheeks were flushed a glorious red as she ranted, making Harry listen with half a satisfied ear.

Heh. At least he the Wizarding World isn't abandoning him this time.

"-Oh, I'd _love_ to see _her_ face You-Know-Who!" She ended, breathing laboriously.

Harry gave her a winning smile, "As the Boy-Who-Lived, I'm not allowed to openly hate people, so I'll reserve my witty words for a private discussion." He chuckled, and Katie did as well but it was more of a hyper hysteria than real laughter.

"So... what are you doing in Gringotts, Miss Bell?" He questioned, almost jokingly until those brown eyes lit up again with constrained fire.

"I need some documents," Katie said slowly, as if she was tasting her own words.

She didn't elaborate and Harry didn't try to draw more information out of her.

"My boy!" Dumbledore called out from the other side of the room.

Harry turned to Katie, giving her a another smile, "See you."

"Yeah. Hogwarts - you better kick arse Potter!" Katie turned those plump lips into a smile that made Harry's heart stop for a second. He hurried to Dumbledore, taking leaps here and there to get to the Headmaster faster.

Dumbledore's clear blue eyes were sparkling, "I just had the most interesting conversation - but I must admit being worried about not getting into the Will Execution room... it seems the Goblins have got it into their heads that everyone is out to steal their gold!"

"They didn't need to confirm me?" Harry questioned, tilting his head up to look at the Headmaster.

"Oh no - not at all! But I will not try to decipher the inner workings of the Goblins. Almost everything seems to offend them one way or another, yet regarding some customers any behavior is acceptable." Dumbledore chuckled, and drew a small brown paper bag from inside the droopy sleeves of his purple and orange robes. He pried the bag opened and took out a Lemon Drop, popping it into his mouth.

Noticing Harry's odd look Dumbledore smiled benignly, "Would you like one, Harry? There's a nice large one right here..." Harry shook his head vehemently, stopping Dumbledore's hand that already seemed to be inside the bag again.

Harry noticed the change in the Headmaster, going from somber and comforting to the jolly, old, senile man who enjoyed Lemon Drops way too much. He wondered what was a facade and what wasn't. Admittedly the scene on stairs had changed his view of the Headmaster. He once again viewed him as a grandfather.

He really wished he could hold grudges better. But the whole prophecy deal had just vanished the moment Dumbledore witnessed his... breakdown, or whatever that was. All summer, he chanted words of revenge on the Headmaster for placing him in the hellhole run by the Dursley wardens without the ability to use magic.

Gold-colored tiles shone brightly as Harry and the Headmaster's feet tapped gently on them as they walked down the hallway. They soon reached a large gold door and it automatically opened for them.

Harry looked around at the various Lords and Ladies, all of them dressed immaculately. As the door slammed shut behind them, they all looked at him and the Headmaster, some with hope and some with hatred.

Each seat had a name plate on it, and it looked like nobody particularly liked where they sat.

Harry's spot was next to Lucius Malfoy. Lucius-fucking-Malfoy.

Did the Ministry not learn _anything_?

Lucius had been caught, red-handed, with the garb of Death Eater on and personally seen casually throwing around Unforgivables by half the Aurors in the Ministry.

Harry sat down roughly, ignoring the superior and haughty look Lucius shot at him. "I compliment you on your robes Mr. Potter. Finally getting out from under the thumb of the impoverished, hmm? I must say though, that texture looks quite _interesting_. What kind of skin is it?"

Harry cleared his throat, "I suppose you claimed the Imperius Curse yet again?" He said, inexpertly hiding his irate feelings. The compliments on his robes, though, did guiltily make him feel slightly proud. Even if it was from _Lucius Malfoy_.

Lucius looking at him from the tip of his nose, "I really was under the Imperius, Mr. Potter. You-Know-Who sought me out in a disguise and placed it upon me while I wasn't looking."

Harry quirked up an eyebrow, "Your not under it now then? I was under the assumption that Voldemort's Imperius' was more powerful than something the Ministry could detect. Perhaps I was wrong. After all, the Ministry of Magic is _all knowing_ and _ever efficient_," He drawled bitterly, hand itching to blast the pureblood's face off with a well aimed _'Bombarda'_.

"Yes, the Ministry is quite infallible isn't it? They never make any mistakes, though describing you, the Boy-Who-Lived, as insane had brought me much amusement," Lucius retorted dryly, eyes of hardened metal glaring a hole through his head.

Harry grit his teeth, "Do you know what brought me much amusement, Mr. Malfoy? When you made the silly mistake of freeing house elf on _accident_. I hear they aren't too cheap these days!" His voice took on a light hissing quality to it, almost unnoticeable.

Lucius's glare increased tenfold, "It wasn't a mistake. What was it's name again? Dobe? Anyway - we replaced that old thing with a newer, less troublesome house elf."

"I see. Tell your snake-faced master that Harry Potter is awesome, and I won't be the one dying when it comes down to it." He turned away, smugly noticing Lucius turn an indignant pink around his ears.

Before the proud pureblood had time to respond, like he obviously wanted to, Griphook came forth with a small band of other Goblins. In Griphook's hand was a scroll of snow-white parchment with a gold edge.

Griphook cleared his throat, "Today is the official Will Reading of Sirius Orion Black." No one made a sound as the Goblin eyed everyone with a contemptuous eye. Harry might have been seeing things, but he thought that Griphook had just shot him a smirk.

"As the Will reads...

_I, Sirius Orion Black heir to the House of Black, accept this Will as valid. _

_Hey, Lords and Ladies! I'd ask how you are all doing but I fear that I wouldn't be able to hear an answer. _

_So anyway. This Will is simple. I leave everything to Harry James Potter. _

_Thanks for listening, folks! Hope I didn't disturb what could have been tea-time. _

_~Sirius Orion Black _

Silence reigned.

Before, of course, Cornelius Fudge started blubbering. "W-why this can't be!" He flustered, utterly confused. "This must have obviously been written before he was thrown into Azkaban!"

Dumbledore's eyes shone a sort of patronizing amusement as he started at Fudge, "Of course. When else would he have been able to?"

Harry hid a snicker at Fudge's face. The politician couldn't do anything.

No one could. It was all legally his.

"This was a waste of time." One woman muttered delicately before standing up and walking out the door. Slowly, other Lords and Ladies began trickling out, until even Lucius got up and left, but not without giving a last superior glare his way.

Dumbledore watched the various people before offering, "Would you like to leave?"

Harry was about to answer but a young Goblin came rushing his way, "Master Potter! Ragebringer requires your presence." Harry merely nodded his head and followed the younger Goblin out the door, turning his head around at least twice to gauge Dumbledore's reaction.

Up a small staircase made of gold they went, and eventually stopped at a large door.

The younger Goblin knocked the door nervously.

"Come in!" The strong voice inside boomed. The younger Goblin quickly opened the door and Harry stepped into the room, looking around in surprise at the majesty of the place.

_'Where did you think they would work, eat and sleep? A cave?'_ He berated himself with incredulity.

The Goblin sitting at the desk looked at Harry with a practiced smile, teeth gleaming, which only seemed to accentuate their sharpness. "Master Potter we have some things do discuss... if you will take a seat?" With a wave of the Goblin's hand the chair on the opposing side of his desk jerked back.

Harry sat down on the chair, making himself comfortable on the red velvet. "Can I assume this about the Black fortune?"

"Yes. Yes you can," Ragebringer tapped his fingers on the desk for moment, "A descendant of mine - Gorger gave you the Black ring a few days ago because there was no way you wouldn't have gotten it, having read the Will before hand. And yes, Master Potter, it is legal." Ragebringer opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a neat stack of papers.

"These are all of the Black assets and properties. But I will inform you this of this. The Black family is the richest and oldest in the entire world... but that's not to say England is the richest country. Actually, I believe Greece takes that title, sadly. I was told you weren't aware of anything regarding your assets prior to your Hogwarts trip?"

Harry shook his head in agreement. So... he was the richest wizard in the world?

Ragebringer gave a sharp, thin lipped frown. "Then you should know that you are extremely well off, and many generations of your descendants could live happily without working. Do you wish to invest? To increase your wealth?"

Harry gave the Goblin a confused look. "Why? I'm the richest man in the world."

The Goblin gave him a narrowed look, "Yes you are. But the Greek family, Leventis, is a close second and if they becomes the richest House in the world than Gringotts' will lose it's distinct superiority to Kallotts, our rival bank."

So Gringotts needed him for bragging rights. Great.

"Er - I suppose some investing wouldn't hurt. For the good of England." Harry replied back.

Ragebringer gave a feral smile, "For the good of England," he agreed wholeheartedly. "I have some ideas that I had been pondering for a while. There is a man that graduated out a private school three years ago and is in need for some funding... he has a talent for breaking curses and wants to start his own firm despite our job offer. Harmonius Belfry would be his name." Ragebringer suggested, carding his fingers together.

Harry barely had to think to give Ragebringer a piece of his mind, "You want him, this curse breaker under my thumb because he refused you right? That way you can still have control over him." The Goblin gave him a snarky smile.

"That's correct. As long as Belfry keeps his company going under your funding and support, you will get five percent of his earnings. In turn, Gringotts will get a part of that as we are the ones keeping track of where the money goes."

He sighed. "Okay. I'll fund Harmonius Belfry, but if this turns out badly, I'll never take your advice about investing again," Harry half-joked.

The Goblin's yellowish eyes hardened a bit, "I am positive Belfry will make us both aplenty of Galleons. Now. Are you in need of an Animagus potion?"

Harry choked a bit, "A what?"

Ragebringer looked at him smugly, "An Animagus potion, Master Potter. Are you in need of one?"

Harry looked at the clever Goblin with narrowed eyes, "What gave you the suspicion that I did?"

"Oh," Ragebringer sighed, "I just thought that the Boy-Who-Lived would surely think of having an Animagus form useful."

"Of course it would be useful," Harry rushed, "What does it do?"

The Goblin eyed him as if he were the stupidest creature to ever grace his presence, "What does it do, he asks. What _would_ an Animagus potion do? Turn you into your animagus form of course! A quick, easy way to instantly become an Animagus. Do you want it?"

Harry pondered it before asking the million galleon question, "How much?"

"Five thousand galleons."

"WHAT!" Harry shouted, jumping out of his chair, "Five thousand! Are you insane?"

Ragebringer smirked at him, "It's not cheap. The ingredients are _very_ expensive and this is the only Animagus potion in stock, and I'm afraid that there will be no more. What do you say? Your vaults carry hundreds of thousands of galleons, it will surely not make even a dent in that fortune," Ragebringer coaxed.

"Five thousand," Harry murmured to himself more than to the Goblin. "Two thousand. I'll pay two thousand."

The Goblin frowned, but an excited glint lit up his eyes, "Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine."

"You're not serious. Fine then, two thousand and one."

"Four thousand five hundred."

"Three thousand."

"Three thousand five hundred."

Harry conceded, "Alright Three thousand five hundred. Where is it?" Ragebringer reached down, gripping the potion and slammed the bottle onto the table.

"Here. It needs a two month fermentation though, and is only activated with extreme emotion."

Harry bit the inside of cheek and tried to keep from sneering at the smug Goblin. He had been cheated.

Well, what had he expected from the greedy little bastards? _Fairness?_

Ragebringer cleared his throat, "On a more serious matter... the rumors have reached my ears about a Basilisk lying dead in the infamous Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry, irritated, couldn't keep the snark out of his voice, "It's been dead for years, Ragnarok. Your ears seem to be getting a bit slow."

The Goblin looked at him amused, "Oh I've known for while - it's just now that I chose to ask you about it. Do you know how much a whole entire, sixty meter, milennia old Basilisk would cost if sold?"

"No. How much?" Harry asked curiously, tone still tinged with anger.

"If you put all the galleons inside of a vault, the vault would be declared as Uncountable." Harry froze, heart racing and eyes wide.

"That's... nice."

"Yes it's very nice I would say, but the Basilisk isn't what I was interested in. When you went into the Chamber of Secrets, did you see... lots of bones on the ground?"

Harry didn't need even a second to think about it, "Yes... bones everywhere, of all kinds. Why?"

"Because, Master Potter," Ragebringer started slowly, "Those bones have been left in an environment that is highly saturated with magic. They themselves would have developed certain... desirable qualities. I would pay much for those bones Master Potter."

"What would I get in return?"

The Goblin gave Harry a deadly smirk, "How about I let you make a weapon out of Goblin materials? Have your own sword or dagger, or whatever you want." Harry gave him a dubious look.

"I'm sure I could find a weapon suitable in one of my vaults. Why should I make a new one?" Frankly Harry didn't have even care about those bones on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, but he would be damned if he gave them away for free.

Ragebringer offered him a condescending look, "Why? Because it would be your own sword. What makes magical weapons better than muggle weapons is the bond between master and servant. Your sword will only work properly in your hands and no one else's, it will be like a companion. The weapons you will find in your vaults belonged to your ancestors, and will only work properly for that specific ancestor of your's."

Harry nodded his head in understanding. Knowing full well that Ragnarock was right. "I'll get the bones."

"Alright. That Portkey we gave Dumebledore won't be deactivated then. Would you like to visit the Black vault now?"

"Yes."

Ragebringer clapped his hands twice and the younger Goblin that had escorted Harry burst through the doors. Without fail, the Goblin ushered Harry outside without touching him and walked with to the carts.

Harry jumped inside one of them and the cart started moving. Slowly at first but then started to gain speed, going even faster than what he had previously remembered. It was exhilarating.

They sped over what looked like a wide abyss, the heavily armored tail of _something_ flipping out to caress the edge while swishing another tail to brush the underside of their cart, making their metal carriage jerk a bit. Harry peeked out over the brim of the cart to peer over the edge and watched as a large, blue eye narrowed while ten other smaller ones opened wide.

When the cart's wheels screeched to a halt he slowly exited out and the Goblin pressed his hand to the door, murmuring a chant before pulling back. "Master Potter, it needs a drop of your blood."

The Goblin pointed to a large snake head, two elongated fangs prodding out of the top of it's mouth.

With trepidation he pressed his finger to one of the fangs and felt the skin break before the stinging started. He watched as the door gave a great moan of protestation but it slowly started to open and Harry stood amazed at the piles of gold that nearly reached the tall ceiling. As expected, littered in and around the galleons were a myriad of books, weapons and chests of unknown treasures.

Placed on the stone walls were portraits, all of them put on stasis except for one. Walburga Black's.

Harry stepped forward to meet her blazing eyes, but before he could speak her mouth twisted in rage, "Of all the things my insolent son could have done... making a half-blood the head of the House of my fathers...I hope wherever he is, he's in the worst agony, flesh being skinned off his bones... and you, HOW COULD YOU BE THE HEAD OF THE MOST NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK? HOW DARE YOU EVEN TAKE THAT TITLE? RELINQUISH IT AT ONCE, YOU FILTHY BASTARD!" She screamed and Harry stood, feet planted in shock.

No matter how many portraits of the same person was painted, or when they were painted, they all acted exactly alike. In Grimmauld Place, Walburga Black's portrait there was nicer to him, smiled every once in a while and tried to fatten him up.

What the hell?

"Apologies Master Potter. We hadn't put her on stasis yet." With a wave of the Goblin's hand, the furious woman froze in place, expression slowly softening until she was in a daze.

Harry just merely nodded.

* * *

><p><em>Minds beneath the Skull:<em>

_Time never passed this slow; not even during times of grief or guilt. Time never passed this fast; not even during times of happiness or excitement._

_It is said that time is constant, and our minds create the illusion of it passing fast or slow due to emotion. But our minds are a big place, and we use less than a sliver or it at any given moment. No matter how hard you think, the extra space is inaccessible. Think of it as a lock and a door._

_But who was the locksmith? Every lock can be broken, if picked correctly. So logically the lock in our minds can be broken. But do we have the strength and the smarts to do it? Do we even want to do it?_

_People only lock things, if there is something worth protecting. Sometimes locks are put to keep things from coming out._

_But what is in our minds to protect? Is there something so dangerous, that it has to kept from us? Does the beast lay dormant until ready?_

_If there is a beast, when will it come out to play?_

_Does time have anything to do with it? Is there a right time?_

_We'd never know._

_But a few individuals have known, about the lock and how it opens._

_And sadly, they are not alive anymore the way that we knew them._

_So if I could choose to open the door, would I?_

_Is it worth the risk?_

_Is it worth the pain?_

_I think not._

_Bless yourselves that you are oblivious, and keep this thought buried deep in your mind. But don't forget it._

_Because a time will come; but most have forgotten, to open the door or ask for the key._

_But you are not most. To open this book, to read it, you now posses the key. _

_Will you open that door?  
><em>

This book was different than all the rest. It made him think. What was metaphorical and what wasn't? Everyone was unique, meaning everyone would have a different door requiring a different key.

_You mind is your world. It's your's and your's alone. _

_So you think._

There were different ways of... picking the lock. Someone might just blast the door open like Voldemort or slide through the opening in a whisper of smoke like Snape. As the Legilimens, once he'd get through the door - the easier part, he'd face the inner world of the victim's mind. It could be anything... a wasteland, a meadow, a castle... wherever they felt the most safe, whether the victim had actually been there or not.

An Occlumens could protect their inner world. Give their peaceful meadow clouds that rain fire, or their castle a moat filled with serpents and secret rat infested passageways.

The true art of Legilimency wasn't breaking into their mind but figuring it out - and fast before the victim broke eye contact.

Once he was in their landscape, he'd have to coax their memories, thoughts and dreams to come to him. Specific ones. If he called all of their memories to come to him, he'd be overwhelmed and lose concentration, making him go back to his own mind.

Occlumens have the skill of shoving memories he wasn't looking for his way. All the little mindless things while instinctively protecting the more desirable information by dulling the emotions connected to them. After all, the important stuff usually had elicited a high amount of emotion from the victim, unless of course, the Legilimens was looking for something deemed 'boring' by the victim.

Getting something deemed 'boring' and had no high emotional attachments from the victim were the hardest bits of information to find.

And Legilimens couldn't stay in someone else's world forever. They are forced out when the victim breaks eye contact, or if they're overwhelmed, or hurt badly by the mind's defenses.

The _'Legilimens'_ spell was a lazier way to do this. No eye contact needed. But had the disadvantage of being impersonal. If his conscience wasn't in their mind, then he would have no control over what it is that he wished to see. Random memories that had elicited a large emotional response from the victim show up, but the caster of the spell can't control what comes forth and what doesn't.

_Desires run about. _

_Showing themselves without shame._

The mind wasn't simple. The inner world wasn't an orderly place and it couldn't be. In a child's mind especially, he'd see things like pigs dressed up in princess costumes putting on plays of the child's favorite musicals for the little fireflies. For a lusty teenager, though, there could be scantily clad females of perfection sauntering about, playing out the teenager's fantasies.

Emotions ran about, plaguing the mind in the forms of colors or animals or types of weather. A distressed man might have torrential rains pouring down on his thoughts.

All of this happening at once.

Harry put a hand to his head, trying to stop a headache from erupting. Who knew breaking into someone's mind was so bloody complicated?

* * *

><p>Harry slipped through the door, faintly easing it shut behind him.<p>

Kingsley laid still on a white bed, body resembling that of a statue poorly disguised as a human. Most of the outer wounds had vanished, but thin, dark scars stitched across where they used to be. A large bandage was wrapped around his forehead, and a jagged steak of crimson had bled through, showing the position of a deadly head wound.

He hadn't noticed it before, but the Auror was missing a hand. Only a cleverly fixed blunt stump was left, as if it had never had the pleasure of controlling it's own set of fingers. It was also Kingsley's wand-wielding hand.

Harry made his way to the senior Auror, and stood there at his side for a moment, readying himself for the intrusion. With a careful hand, he his wrenched Kingsley's eyelids open, gently looking into the dark orbs that reflected the excruciating pain he was going through.

Breathing in deeply, he aligned his face with Kingsley's and stared straight into the black pupils, feeling something attach to his very being and attempting to drag him inside. Like opposite magnets.

He let his conscience escape his body like it so longed, and akin dammed water being freed, his conscience rushed into Kingsley's mindscape and Harry prepared for the onslaught.

Nothing.

In front of him was a pleasant field, grass a light green in color and lightly flowing as a gently breeze swept past.

In Auror training, Harry knew for a fact that a defended mind was required. They had to know how to protect their minds even if they possessed just the barest minimum of talent... but in contrast, Legilimency was practically a tabooed skill to have.

A two year sentence in Azkaban if illegally used. And the Ministry had a record of _never_ giving anyone a license - such a thing didn't even exist.

Harry took a step forward in the endless expanse of grass, distinctly wondering where Kingsley could be hidden.

If Kingsley wasn't on ground level... it was either up or down.

Tilting his head upwards, a cerulean cloudless sky stared down at him.

Down then.

Gathering his will, he imagined plowing into the ground, like a small mole or drill. He descended slowly until he came to a strange pocket of air inside the blue-colored dirt.

Something clicked in his mind. The grass above him was the door... and he by drilling into the ground, into the door, he did the 'blast the door open' technique. Harry looked around himself, amazed at the sheer... chaos.

Pink bunnies nibbled on weeds made of glass, the sun was a muddy brown in color, hanging directly above him and the pungent smell of nail polish stung his nose.

And directly in front of him was Kingsley - or rather, perfect Kingsley. No scars, no blemishes... above average height and a toned yet muscular build all covered in chocolate colored skin. The robes 'Perfect Kingsley' wore were a fabulous, expensive set of purple Dragon hide.

'Perfect Kingsley' looked at him and smiled, teeth rivaling that of Lockhart's when Harry knew well that the real Kingsley's were coffee stained.

It was Harry's first time in someone else's mind... when it wasn't Voldemort's, and frankly the encounters weren't even _in_ Voldemort's mind, it was seeing through his eyes. Harry took a deep breath a smiled winningly at 'Perfect Kingsley'.

"Hello there!" Harry greeted with a faux chirpy attitude.

'Perfect Kingsley' slowly looked him up and down, "Why, hello... who might you be?"

"Harry Potter."

"Any relation to HP #2 or HP #7? You seem to carry their features." Kingsley responded politely, pointing west. Harry looked in that direction and his eyes practically fell out of his head at what he saw.

HP #2 and HP #7 were the spitting images of him... except that they were sitting together in a beach chair, making out like nobody's business.

_Holy shit._

His clones were... _engaging in sexual activity_. He was _making out_ with _himself_. Two Harry Potters together in a beach chair...

Harry took a calming breath, shuddering slightly. "They are... distant cousins. I was wondering...?"

"Kingsley. Kingsley Shacklebolt," 'Perfect Kingsley' introduced, giving an elaborate bow.

"Yes, a pleasure to meet you. Have you seen a man... that's trapped somewhere? Someone that looks like you except..."

"Older, uglier, unpleasant, scarred?" 'Perfect Kingsley' questioned casually, taking out a wheat colored toothpick and started picking between his flawlessly perfect teeth that gleamed a pearly hue.

"Err - yeah." Harry stumbled awkwardly in , "Have you seen him around?"

A deep, rich, resounding laugh bellowed out of 'Perfect Kingsley's' chest. "Oh, Harry Potter! I was just looking for him myself! In fact I wanted to give him an invitation to the Kingsley Shacklebolt Ball! He's the only one I haven't been able to find, even Agent Shacklebolt came out of hiding in Mum's rose bushes to get the invite."

Harry quickly contemplated why there wasn't anything trying to attack him. Two theories immediately sprung in his mind. One - The curse did something. Two - He wasn't trying to read Kingsley's memories so the... protections, wherever they were, didn't see him as a threat.

There were generally two kinds of Legilimency. The deep kind, which he was currently doing and the gentle kind. With the gentle kind, he could have a conversation with someone in the real world and gently probe someone's mind at the same time. With the deep kind, you didn't know what what happening to your physical body.

"Would you like to help me find him?" Harry asked politely, trying to ignore his clones who had just started to shed their clothing.

Kingsley smiled at him, "Sure! Would you like to start at the Death Eater Slaughter House? It's the main gathering for Kingsley Shacklebolts."

Somehow Harry doubted it. Wouldn't a trapped man be hidden somewhere more... secretive? But then again... is hiding yourself from figments of your mind still considered hidden away?

He felt another headache coming on. Looking for a conscience inside of their mind was so much more bloody difficult than just plundering someone's mind and watching their memories.

Why? Because he couldn't coax trapped people out like he could with memories.

The true ingeniousness of the 'Curse of Vilis' hadn't really struck him till now.

"Uh - when is this ball of your's Kingsley?" The Auror waggled his eyebrows at Harry and checked his watch. Harry peered over it and confusedly pondered over the time 176:03.

Harry took a deep breath. Magic is magic. Nothing in magic makes sense. Same thing with imagination - the inner mind world. Inner mind world is crazy. Nothing in inner mind world makes sense.

"Oh! Thank Merlin you caught that Harry! it actually starts right now... I just hope that Kingsley Shacklebolt will be there one time - you know, the uglier one."

The man pulled Harry into a tight embrace and he closed his eyes against the sensation of being pulled a tight tube. When his eyes cracked open, he stood, stunned at the sight that me him. Everything was covered in ice. Ice sculptures of various animals loomed in the corners, snow littered the ground, tables were just carved blocks of ice and the chandelier was beautiful ice shards softly lit on fire yet never melting. And even the air was chilly.

But in the very center of it all was exactly what Harry was looking for. "OH MY GOD!" Harry yelled, catching the attention of all the Kingsley Shacklebolts.

The real Kingsley was in a cage of frozen ice, constricting movement while a red light glowed around his body.

'Perfect Kingsley' came up to him, and prodded his shoulder, "What's wrong - oh that? It's the Kingsley Shacklebolt Appreciation decor. Man in ice. Perfect isn't it?" Harry could merely only stare at the half-naked man in horror. He was mutilated so badly he wasn't even recognizable.

"Don't... don't you care? One of your Kingsleys are hurt!" Harry shouted, belatedly realizing how absurd that sounded.

Someone came up behind him. Macho Kingsley. Muscles the size of cannonballs sat atop his arms and he only wore loin-cloth like a jungle man. "Chill, man," his voice was a very deep baritone. "It's only decoration," The thought that it may actually hurt 'Macho Kingsley's' vocal cords to talk that deeply crossed Harry's mind.

"Kingsleys, don't you realize that what you've been calling decoration is actually a real Kingsley!" Harry cried out, and the arm of 'Perfect Kingsley' snaked around his shoulders.

'Perfect Kingsley' snorted and rolled his dark eyes, "Decor, dear Harry Potter. Though I must admit it's rather gruesome... reminds me too much of myself." Harry gaped at the man for a second before a half-baked plan started to formulate inside of Harry's mind.

"Hey Kingsley," Harry called out the dazed 'Perfect Kingsley'.

"Yes, Harry Potter?" He questioned genuinely, as if everything was well and normal.

What the hell was he doing? These people... figments of imagination didn't function like people. Anyway, everything probably _was_ well and normal in Kingsley world.

"Since the... decor reminds you too much of yourself, could I remove it?" 'Perfect Kingsley' put a finger to his chin in contemplation before nodding his head slowly.

Harry didn't need anymore encouragement. All this... craziness was going to mess with his mind.

Especially his clones making out in a beach chair. Especially that.

He climbed up the platform and scooted around a choir of little Kingsleys, who's voices rivaled that of angels. Harry then stood in front of the trapped Kingsley, whose eyelids were shut impossibly tight, preventing him from looking at Harry.

Up close, he could see the real Kingsley shiver lightly with pain, lithe muscles trembling with agony.

Harry touched the cool ice that bit at his fingers. With determination, he thought of all the good things in the world - the very few. The rare laugh of his mother that still seemed to echo in his mind... Hermione when she found something incredibly exciting... Ron when he saw the massive piles of food at the Yule Ball... him when he was up in the air, doing acrobatics and Hermione shouting at him to be careful.

The ice slowly started to melt and Harry thought harder, conjuring mental patronus'... everything warm, happy and nice. Soon a thin crack started to spread across the thick ice. The gash became deeper and spread further, but Harry soon found he couldn't do it anymore.

He still had more stamina, more strength, more happy memories but foreign intrusion could only do so much. Slowly he stepped back, watching as Kingsley's body stopped shivering uncontrollably, and instead let out a moan of pain.

A response.

There was nothing more he could do inside of Kingsley's mind. The invented cure would have to be administered now.

And that sent even cooler chills down Harry's spine.

Harry jumped off the platform of singing Kingsleys and stood there for a moment, just basking in all the chaos that surrounded him. Kingsleys of every size were at the Kingsley Shacklebolt ball. One of them even brought Andromeda Tonks as a date, and another brought a rather effeminate Mad-Eye Moody.

Okay. No more.

He concentrated on going back to his physical body. In front of him a silvery tether appeared and he grabbed on to it, letting it pull him back faster than he could see.

* * *

><p>His brain felt like it was sizzling. Harry looked at the white bed in front of him and gave a small laugh, seeing the stiffness in Kingsley's face loosen a bit.<p>

Shutting down his emotions, Harry reached inside his inner pocket and took out the gleaming syringe. Steadily, he found the crook of Kingsley's arm and pushed the needle part inside, disgust welling up inside of him at the feeling of going through flesh.

Carefully, he pressed down and watched as murky red liquid left the small bottle, leaving a clear tube behind.

God, he hoped this worked.

Putting the used syringe back inside his inner pocket he ran a hand through his black locks. Quickly he gathered himself and jogged out of the make-shift infirmary, eye hoping from place to place in search of anyone spying on him.

He didn't know what he would have done if someone had caught him injecting Kingsley with his invented cure. Memory charms could go incredibly wrong if you weren't experienced,

And even though he was a rather good Legilimens, he wasn't experienced.

"Boy!" Harry froze and turned his head toward Walburga Black's portrait.

"...Yes?"

A soft smile curved her lips, "Could you be a dear and close the curtains? I wish to sleep." Harry merely nodded slowly, and carefully shut the red velvet curtains, his face struggling not show confusion.

* * *

><p><strong>AN - **

This chapter is three times as long as normal chapters, and took forever to go over. Even still, I don't particularly like the chapter. But anyway, about the Legilimency, Harry didn't become a master Legilimens from just entering Kingsley's mind. But going into the Auror's mind did 'break a barrier' for him so to speak.

Hope everyone will continue to have a good weekend. For me, Spring Break is/was hardly a break because of all the work they shoved down my throat. xP

Review :)**  
><strong>


End file.
